On Lincoln Street in Elmira,
the air remembers.
I visit mother,
her hands wrapped around a cup,
and across from us
sits what is no longer you.
I do not tremble -
peace has come, the way
winter eventually unclenches into spring.
Still, you lean everywhere -
in the clink of the spoon,
in the steam rising,
in the space no one fills.
Your absence does not whisper -
it is vast, unignorable,
like a cathedral without its bell.
I try to breathe with it,
to let it be only silence.
But silence has weight,
and yours presses against my chest.
You are my father,
a giant among giants -
not in stature alone,
but in the way light gathered
around your generosity,
the way whole neighborhoods
bent toward your voice.
In Elmira,
they still say your name.
Children—now grown,
their own children tugging at their sleeves -
remember the fields where you coached them,
the endless patience, the laugh,
the lessons that were never only about sport.
You stood in dugouts, gyms,
on blacktop courts—
everywhere, it seems,
except the improbable sheet of curling ice.
How many hundreds carry you
in their stride,
in the way they teach,
in the way they shake a stranger’s hand?
How many remember
your hand on their shoulder,
your steady reminder
to look out for one another?
The town is diminished,
the world is diminished.
My world,
most of all.
Yet memory,
that fragile lantern,
keeps you close:
in the stories my sisters tell,
in my brother’s quiet gestures,
in my mother’s eyes -
still turned toward the door
as if you might walk in,
mud on your shoes,
coffee already on your breath.
We carry you now,
like a hymn sung imperfectly,
yet strong enough to reach heaven.
And even in your absence
I feel you across from me,
teaching still -
that love is a season.
GBS
2024
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