You were about ten and we were traveling
through Italy
just the way
we had planned
so many times
and I, speaking Italian
to you who knew so
few words
explaining my history
this and that
and my house
destroyed
how grandma died
right there in the
earthquake after you were born
how grandpa's grapes influenced
what wines I preferred.
And then,
suddenly,
you
all grown
And all gone.Over a year gone.
I woke up
in the dark
all feverish
all frightened.
I'm ready
to have an annual day
to remember our son
I declared-the hour still
dark and catless-
on the anniversary of his death
here at the lake,
with all his friends
this July.
My husband
heard my restlessness and
toward me turned
to hear my fevered call to action.
He bottled the thought
in his own container
as his habits dictated
and began by speaking of
of a day
where your friends
could do
what all of them
did when you were together
go camping
canoeing
fishing...
wherever you usually went.
You mean return to their camping grounds in Catalina?
Yes, he said.
Because that's not my intent at all.
I want
My son
Here
camping and fishing
Here, with us, on this lake.
A wave of grief drowned the rest of the exchange.
