for Amy Williamson
The café was on 85th and Broadway. We ordered French toast
from the tall, elegant waitress with the accent. My father was wearing
a blue shirt. There were flecks of powdered sugar down the front.
Outside, December was hovering in limbo, unsure of where it was.
Your son had just turned 13. I was five months away from 40.
The holiday sales were in full swing. We walked to Port Authority
in time for your bus. Construction sites drilled holes in our conversation.
I was envious of your blue raincoat, your black boots, your tan.
You were carrying yourself with an almost unbearable grace.
The sky was heavy with near-rain. It was an ending. Or a beginning. Or both.