He’d love that one.
That’s perfect for her.
But there’s simply two fewer
to shop for this year.
No brown paper parcel
with slippers and socks
that were half the price
of the postage’s cost.
No charity cards
with soaring white doves;
no more cursive content,
no message of love.
And, in your notebook,
in your tidy hand,
addresses updated.
But nothing to send.
Exhausting, enraging.
Still unfair. Still sick.
Half-blind, reaching, flailing,
through translucent mist.
But when I see presents
that I’ll leave behind,
I will value the fact
that our lives intertwined,
Cause you taught this lesson
through all that you did:
It’s the thought that matters
not the price of the gift.
