Seven Seconds

by Mark Belair

The video
plays only seven seconds—
the angle was poor
so my taping son bailed out—
but that’s long enough
to hear
the singer by the bar, with her nimble guitarist, cover
Don’t Worry, Be Happy,
and to see
that three customers intending to leave
the cozy café I’m roaming
can’t leave
until they’ve danced
around the infant in my arms, she
facing out to them and grinning, all gums,
all seven of us
in a singing, dancing circle, my granddaughter
the shining star, the joy
we fill each other with
cut short on the tape
as if in premonition
of the inevitable
moment I’ll be made to leave
my granddaughter’s young life, the video
like a flash-fragment of early memory,
like a random
but sustaining remembrance
she might hold
of my love,
and not worry, and be happy.