As the sun rose, he whispered, I’ll come back if I’ve left anything then packed and went as quickly as he did that first time some ten years before. It was a fishing trip then — a last chance visit with family before graduation and grad school — this time a funeral, his uncle. No lingering, not like other years, when we dozed dream-wrapped late into the morning……..loved. But with New Jersey such a long ride from our reverie, he left before we had a chance to… ……..a chance to say anything more than
Same time next year? Should I bake a cake? I’ll come back if I’ve left anything.
I prayed he left more than a spoon, held my breath in pregnant pause for weeks until it was clear there was nothing to come back to……..not even the spoon which still makes its way into coffee, stirs up the memory of that morning and what might have been……..afterall had he left anything more.