Death reminds us,
absence surrounds.
For years my parents were present.
Now they’re gone,
their presence a memory,
a different kind of real.
Everywhere there is nothing,
vacancy abounds, between
letters in a word, between
words on a page, between
notes voiced in song, between
a man and his constant dog.
The man thinks he knows the dog.
The dog knows she knows enough.
Not knowing makes this bond adhesive.
Driving, I accelerate toward void
to avoid smashing into presence;
the car, the truck, the pedestrian.
A husband looks at his wife of forty years,
appreciates the gap between them,
does the reaching out required to love.
A wife looks at the intimate stranger
whom she chose to love across distance.