Well, the ancestors for sure.
Especially the ones who never knew me
but laid down the path I now walk.

The parents, too, who made me
in more ways than the original one,
far from perfect, perfect for me.

The sister I didn’t know I needed,
the steady, can’t-do-without-her
being who shares so much of my DNA.

The first BFF who’s still the BFF.
Also the BFF who declared herself so,
then later vanished into mystery

yet sidles up to me when I’m on
my knees, hands in the dirt,
plant-praying, as she used to say.

The good men. The good, good men,
of whom I’ve happily had many,
as lovers, as friends, one husband,

and the beloved who’s stuck with
me for decades. Friends, friends,
friends, long ago and in the now,

the people family, the animal familia,
the acquaintances who left more
of a mark than they’ll ever knew.

Like the young woman at Home Depot
who deployed her little ray gun on
the Johnny Jump Ups I found there

after looking everywhere, who
grinned and said exactly what
I thought as I looked at their tiny

pansy faces: “Aren’t they happy
little things?” I held her eyes
with mine, our fingers touching

as she handed me the receipt.
“They so are,” I said, adding
to myself, “and so are we.”