Four Years;

Thirty-three years gone
and he can still see you -
a woman holding a daughter,
hobbling across the frozen
wastes of a Vermont winter;
broken legged and climbing
into the old Subaru in search
of help.

Thirty-one years gone
and he can see you now -
surrounded by friends
on a porch, armed and hiding
in the bushes he unloaded
on wasps sending you all fleeing.
Afterward, He fleeing, you pursuing,
caught; the bread paddle breaking
in the deliverance of punishments -
you both had to laugh.

Thirty years gone
and he can see you -
holding a child's hand,
wiping his brow of sweat
and pain, wincing
for him each time the voltages
are applied to the mass
of needles sticking from joints.

Twenty-nine years gone
and he can see a woman -
worn from exertions,
wrapped in white and light
holding another - sister,
first-born of the year.

Twenty-seven years gone
and he can see you
standing in a winter kitchen
covered in flour, ringed
with paper bags and crackling fat -
teaching the art of doughnuts
to little people; and again
on a frozen February morning -
a pipe snapped by cold
led a boy to climb atop a water tank
to kill the pump. Soaked, terrified,
shocked and immobilized,
you removed him
with a handy broom handle.

Twenty-two years gone
and he sees a woman -
worn, battered by life,
but still loving, trying to help
an angry rebel see what she knew,
saw - what could not be taught;
and he carried her down the stairs,
headed back up for bed ignoring
the pleas to be logical, reasonable.

Ten years gone
and he can see you now -
telling a man he can survive,
that he is more than good
enough to face the world
when he doubts with shakes
and sweats, and detoxifying
hallucinations; and he knows
she was right.

Four years gone
and he can see her again -
lying in a hospital gown,
monitored and tubed by machine,
he woke drilled and wired
like the jobs of his youth;
mechanized and robotic,
hers is the first face
he recalls.

Four years gone
and he can see her now -
their positions switched, he sees
a woman worn and faded from life's
fights; wants nothing more
than to demand she heed
the words she spent
a lifetime telling him;
Fight!

...and he knows
it is too late -
she is done.

Four years gone
and what has he left? A single
photo less than Four inches
square. A single recording
less than Fourteen seconds
in length. Four years gone
and he has a thousand
thousands of memories.

Four years gone
and your remembrance
makes you live.

_{(For KKV, 08-05-1953 - 05-28-2006)}