Swing me high, swing me low.
Your strong, warm hands launch me floor-to-ceiling.
Past your white work shirt, 5:30 fatigue, and heartfelt laughter.
Your mom, my mom, and me.
Three generations gather in the Zenith raspberry patch.
Aprons, sky-high canes, and ruby-tipped fingers.
Bulging bowls bubble and burp.
Stirring and steam settles and waits to glide across fresh-baked bread.
The Four Freshman sing after stories and prayers.
We use curtain toggles for microphones and take turns singing the lead.
You always win at Clue,
but I don’t care because I’ll do anything to be with you.
Three precious are gone, but gone just a bit.
So much still abides here with me.
You sent me a gift from your own time and space –
you’re not by my side, but you’re not far away.