           For W and D
On the day before surgery,
she scans from the doorway,
hops out to the car, peers in
at her grandfather’s face gazing out.
Touching her nose to the window,
she mirrors his gaze through glass.
One way to seek the divine
is through another’s eyes.
She heaves open the heavy door,
launches into her seat
with a nod, but no words
needed. Last night he prepared,
rolled shirts, fold after fold,
grabbed a notebook and pens
to play hangman and dots on the train
and in admissions, later.
A worrier, I speed — arriving
at the station too early,
then shrug and say,
Now you have time to buy candy.
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Such chaos, this crowd, this rush.
I stare at my husband, a plea:
don’t for a second lose sight
of this precious child.
art by the poet
