Bread and a Knife: For Don Laird

Last night I wondered how long the orange-yellow tulips

would last, petals stretched like arms bound to ache,

stamens sturdy but exposed. The call came

just  before dawn, voices soft in the dark.

It’s over, Peter said, and we remembered another morning

with light on his father’s face as he held our baby

in perfect contentment. How he adored her.

Peter talked to his brother and drove to what is now

his mother’s house. We were glad his sister spent

the night there. I mused until my eyes stung, then

recalled the blackened bananas on the counter,

the bread pan I’d set out yesterday, wanting to make

something whole and sweet. I’ll bring bread to Alice

who might eat or stare or leave it like the baseball

a friend brought for her husband to hold in his hands.

The ball is solitary now on a wheeled table, like the belt

I left coiled after washing Don’s last worn shirt and blue jeans.

I don’t yet know who will want the knife looped

through that belt, but someone will open

the blades and find uses as good

as those made by a man who left a garage

filled with rakes, saws, saved nails and wire,

a cloud and cluster of all that he fixed

and cherished and will endure.

Thank you for all the kind and thoughtful comments here, on facebook, and in emails on my post from three days ago. I’m lucky in my family and lucky in my compassionate friends, too.