I imagine you on your walks in the morning
when you went into the wilderness to pray
and be with your father and I wonder
if you cried alone too.
I wonder what animals you saw when
you went on your walks. I wish I could
see your face as you greeted them.
I wonder if you had trouble too,
trouble deciding what to do,
trouble feeling like it,
trouble knowing what to say,
trouble knowing how to care
for yourself and for other people,
trouble knowing how to use
your time and your life,
where you came from.
I wonder what it would have been like
to buy a table from you, like the one
I wish I had under my window
over there in the corner, the one
that would hold my records so
I can flip through them without squatting.
What would it be like to hear
you talk about all your tools
and the man who cut the wood
for you and the way you designed
the legs and used your back
and your arms to smooth the surface?
What would it be like to share
a joyful smile with you after
I gave you my money and
you gave me my favorite table?