Today I catch day inside my throat, some bright bone, like the sliver edge of sunlight I once glimpsed when he spoke.
Today, seven black birds rise against an almost evening sky, full wings lifting.
Today, a half-moon rises against the blue, white mottled with gray, and I think of the way there is white too in waves breaking against the blue body of sea, how they turn gray in storms, how they crash against shorelines and piers and boat hulls, how they crash too, somewhere inside me, inside my cage of bones, that tidal pull of blood rushing in and out and around the body, that steady thump thump thumping of the heart I hold my hand to.
Choose birds in all kinds of weather, small toads on the patio, rocks whose smooth surfaces fill your palms, choose instead a small boy’s laughter, the thin plane of his back you hold your hand to when you hold him, when he tucks his head against your shoulder and tells you that he loves you.
Choose light. Choose light in the sky and green trees brushing against the houses, brushing against sky, brushing against other trees, branches swaying in wind, a kind of dancing you could watch forever. Choose too, that other memory, the breathless brush of your body against another’s, how his hand had eclipsed your own.
Choose this instead of the young men you have buried, instead of all those other wordless leavings.
Choose instead love. Always, choose love.