For Bill

I burst into fragments 

of myself

when you died. 

The child that needed a dad

who changed their oil 

and kept his promises. 

The adult that gained a new 

perspective on work

and life

and what it's like to live solidly 

with regret. 

The model of a partner 

that sticks it out

for a presence on the couch,

in hardware stores,

and at our door. 

The "retired people" person

if only just beginning

to walk down the path

of becoming. 

I entwine our stories 

because I don't know what it's like

to love so fiercely 

and be loved 

without condition,

without placeholder,

or hierarchy. 

I close my eyes and see you at Christmas,

terrifically proud,

of your electrical switches, 

capable of turning off or on;

your face lit up:

pure joy at having "lost" the gift exchange. 

As my eyelids lift, 

I hold my palms open

hoping that you have found rest;

the absence of pain;

the presence of peace.

Love,

your daughter, in practice.