Copyright 2024 by Jack A. Urquhart

(For Raymond L. Boyington on the second anniversary of his absence)

I calendar your absences,
Dear Man (did you know?). 
I employ the plural, absences, 
because there are many: 
One hundred and four Saturdays, 
a little less than two trips 
around the as-ever sun 
infinitely indifferent 
to the tortured meanderings
of our human grief.
Interesting, don’t you think 
that the Earth’s orbit 
runs counterclockwise?
What a perfect metaphor
for the age-old longing
to run time backward.
Believe me, I can relate.
It has been hundreds of days, 
Thousands of hours, 
A million minutes and counting
since you took your leave. 
And you, the irrecoverable void 
at the center 
of every second. 
I know it’s weird, 
but I am compelled
to track these empty spaces, 
these entry-less days, weeks, months. 
And now, years. 
Like a force of habit, some might say. 
But that simile will not suffice.
For you were the calendar 
of my life. 
The one entry writ large 
in bold font, all caps 
across every page, 
the one appointment 
that could never be canceled. 
And that holds true, 
To this day, My Love.
So, yes. I will keep the calendar,
Of these absences
For you were the man 
at the center 
of all my seasons.