It’s only in the after that I see it:
How I should’ve slowed down,
stopped, actually,

that time, a hundred times,
and, fitting my small hand into
your larger one, just sat in the quiet

of the back yard, as I do now,
under the big sycamore tree
that’s still here,

where you amble over as casually
as the dog once did, putting his
head on my thigh for a pat.

Don’t we all do this as we miss
the beloveds, the two-footed
and the four-footed?

Isn’t this when they reappear
as if we summoned them,
which, of course, we do,

as your hand squeezes mine
one more time?