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Elegy for an Estranged Friend
By Sally Molini
In this chapel of vague connections
the pastor who didn't know you
strokes the sadness. Soft as moths
the living answer the call,
fill the pews for an unexpected
farewell. Your children,
the reading of your work
make it easy to see the past
in a generous light.
A collector of jazz, butterflies
and old arguments, you're first
to find out what doesn't matter,
a list so long I should be scared
of all the things I claim as mine.
Relieved of the body's
ambiguous realm, your memories
no longer turn on me,
their traces tucked
into the last, passionate folds.
The steeple's shadow points
the way out as cars leave
the parking lot's narrow stalls --
I don't want to go to graveside.
Better to sit here and watch
clouds pass over the white façade,
a more fitting memorial,
about how every movement
has an undetected stillness.
We forgot that, between us,
deeper benedictions were always
waiting to shake off old cocoons,
ready to fan their wings.
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