You had a shower and a job and a good working car.
You made us meals and loved us
while we experimented with lack
and beards and breastfeeding
cutting wood and outhouses.
It was grand and we loved you.
Thank you dearest.
News of your death went out viva e mail
to a group referred to as the Harvest Feasters,
bringing up a whole treasure chest of unresolved relationships.
We were young,
experimenting in love and jealousy.
We didn’t know anything.
Our parents were emotionally repressed.
We wanted to do better
but in the end we just walked away.
My only new thing to add to the old equation
is an ability to hold myself with kindness
with the tender smile on my soft face
as I revisit the swirling tides of my youth
and the skills I did not have.