Unspoken


We hold hands while walking back across the bridge.
It is a tenuous grasp;
our fingers are slowly slipping apart.
Any moment now, I expect you to pull away,
the wind billowing your sail, floating you off.
I would watch you rise up into the stars, until
you have become too small to see.
Neither of us can speak.

At dawn, the child listens in bed while his father
prepares for the day. He listens to how the coffee cup
kisses the tiled counter as
the morning paper is read. In the room
down the hall, the keys make a familiar sound,
slipping over the ridges in the
white scallop shell.
How many times had the child pressed his hand into that
shell to run his finger tips along those channeled furrows?
Footsteps, then the front door gently closes behind.

This is when I would always want to shout
goodbye.


illeahcim