I sit with you and listen while you tell me your stories.
Though I often don’t understand what you’re saying,
I think I know what you’re telling me.

“I’m unhappy,” I hear you say.
“I don’t understand how this happened.”

You stop and stare at me, waiting for me to answer.
I’m not sure what you’ve asked me
but I think I know what you want to hear.

“Everything is okay,” I say
“There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

You tell me about your worries and the people
who were mean to you. You talk about
all the things you did and your many plans.

I nod a lot. I sometimes feel
that I’m not even there.

Most of the time, you know who I am still,
but you’ve lost your place in time.
Over and over you ask me about your mom and dad.

“They’re fine,” I tell you.
“They’re still in Michigan, where the farm is.”

Just a month or so ago you asked me how your mother died.
We talked a long time about that day and how
she left happy, without pain or lingering illness.

“Are they okay?” you ask, worried.
“Do they know where I am?”

Sometimes you smile and I see you.
I really see you.
Where are you when you’re not here?

“I love you,” I ask you to remember.
“No matter what I will always, always love you.”

October 23, 2009