© 2023
by Jack A. Urquhart

For Raymond L. Boyington on what would've been
his 82nd birthday (09.25)

Sometimes I wonder,
do you hear me
when I talk to you?
Can you feel it 

when I speak your name?

Does the gravitational pull
of this unremitting grief 
cross the space
we once filled together?

Does it pull at you
where you are?

Do the moments resonate
when I grasp at them --
these ricocheting, random 
memories of you?

A found photo, for example
dated July 16, 2019: 

Azay-le-Rideau and you 
beneath a blue-white
stripped sky, 
à la française.

Do your gasp 
when I catch my breath
at the image 
of your smile?

Do you rouse where you are 
in agitation when I begin
my litany of "if onlys": 
If only I'd known, 

If only I could turn back time.

If only a premonition–
some fleeting, scary notion
that one-hundred fifty-six weeks 
and four days

Was all I had left of you?

Would foresight have made the day
more than it was, which was lovely
and all about friends,
and food, and good wine? 

Would I have been more attentive, 
more closely anchored at your side? 
Would I have strained to memorize 
your every gesture, your every word?

And more to the point:

Would I have taken pains
to show the depth of feeling,
of happiness, of gratitude,
Of pure, unmitigated love

I felt for you? 

Feelings too often unfathomed
usually, when it matters most?
As when all that's left
is one-hundred fifty-six weeks

and four days.