If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a story

—Refaat Alareer from “If I must die”

•••

I feel hope leaking like
a bag of fresh sunlight after
your slow passage into

the what comes next.
In the array of pale pink
camellias showing off their

double spiral perfection
outside a window you looked
through every day. In the grins

of your grandson and his
wife tugging hard at roots
you literally set down

nearly six decades ago,
unruly and overgrown,
clearing space for the new

while gently trimming
vintage vines that will
tendril their way

toward the front door.
In the four deer
across the road

nibbling at the
green bits emerging,
two does with smaller

fawns, some of your
wild neighbors, along with
the turkeys who’d

cruise the backyard
like teenage toughs
on a Saturday night.

“They’re just hungry,”
you used to say, leaving
bird seed for them

outside in the old dog dish.
“They’re not such foul fowl.”
This makes me smile as

I relay this anecdote to
people who will never
know you except through

the stories I tell,
the poems I write
about you and other

companion spirits,
bringing hope, that
thing with feathers,

and a little bit of love,
as all the best stories
do.