The Circle

From last year’s notebook, when the stitches were still fresh:

These memories come like the rain,
powerful storms and gentle showers
blowing by in minutes
soaking in for hours

Like the night at the rec watching Brayden play
ghosts of hundreds of nights and days
flashed through my mind until when he
caught the pass and ran for the score
I could almost see you jump up shouting
sweet fists in the air like so many times before

Or Bryson Jack Bella being children at a party
while the grown children laughed and scolded
and talked and talked, a ninety minute swirl of motion
and sound the likes of which have always been
happy blurs to me, a little hollow without you in
the middle orchestrating the chaos, but with pieces of
you everywhere I look, Complete: the circle being
unbroken.

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