I remember the first time walking up those porch steps
being twenty and loving a boy
who held my hand
when we went to meet his parents.
I remember my nerves and fear
dissipate with hello.
I remember them both on the porch.
I remember he was formal but called her lover,
she was large with eyes that never left mine.
I remember drinking spritzers together
while they asked me about all that made my life
as I sat by the boy I loved.
I remember the dinners around their table,
helping to clear the dishes so I could enjoy
time in private with her.
I remember the desolate leaving of them
when I left the boy I’d loved.
I remember the day she called me
to tell me the boy I’d loved
had died in a ski accident in Canada.
I remember she said he’d taken one too many runs
after a long day and slammed into a pole.
I remember her telling me he was her golden boy.
I remember visits from here to there
climbing the steps to the porch,
never having to call ahead,
always welcome.
I remember dinner with them,
with my husband,
sitting in their living room surrounded by
large plants and framed photos,
the grandfather clock
tock tocking,
drinking glasses of wine.
I remember the rides in his antique cars,
I remember the rolls of music he played
on the player piano
delighting my children I’d brought to visit.
I remember him pushing them on the swing
he’d hung in the yard for his own children.
I remember calling for no special reason
to say hello
on the day that happened to be the day
she died.
I remember writing him a letter
full of tears
and another soon after
when another of his sons
died in a plane crash.
I remember and will always remember
yesterday
happening to be in town,
spotting him alone on the porch,
in a chair,
parking my car in overgrown yard,
climbing the steps,
so wanting to be with him,
wanting to hug him for all he’d lost,
for all I remembered of him,
until the moment I realized
his smile was not full,
his stare was vacant,
he no longer remembered me.
