A Silent Concession

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It’s my first birthday since you left

which feels like evaporated centuries now.

Even though you were plunging

into the tar pit of sorrow

you called me last year

from the area code of fading memory 

trying hard to sound like sing-songy-you

before your vocal cords

became as withered as ancient parchment

And pain became your metronome.

For a few spare seconds

we were toddlers again

daffy and defiant

spinning in circles

in party clothes

driven by the kind of bliss

that is the provenance of daffy dogs

and the courtship dance of flamingos

as we celebrated

with a fallen comrade slice of cake

and a pyramid of presents 

That had wiggly ribbons like 

The ones in your hair.

When you said goodbye

it felt like a solemn ritual

like we were signing an armistice

that spelled out the conditions of your surrender.

I could not let it end like that. 

So I imagined you

on the deck of the Mauretania

in clever tweeds, long gloves, and hat

waving with merriment

to me on the moors

as I watched you disappear into the mist

which we both knew was

a silent concession 

that sadness had won.

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