Your Trinity

Words are precious.
I'm glad you had them till the end
even though they barely etched
the air with whispers.

Your brother came.
In hindsight, you had
four more days.
Your machine provoking you
to breathe.
With its mask
crowding your face, 
you turned to me.
Your eyebrows lifting, 
connecting eye to eye
to assure communication 
in spite of the struggle.

"Tell him," you pained,
barely audible,
"Tell him what I want
him to do with my ashes."

The grief of writing this
three and a half years later 
seizes my chest and throat.
Yet those whispers pierce
time with conviction.

Your wish.
Your love.
The river.

Your brother's vow.
Our tears.
Your comfort at that assurance.

You would - once again -
grace the river you loved.

I see you now - 
recall the many hours 
you stood thigh-high
in your river.
Fishing pole in hand,
watching each ripple,
tuning into the bouncing
of the tip, the pull
of the line.
Your feet anchoring 
your meditation
within the current.

He was sent half
your ashes; his
duty was his honor.

Though the cabin 
had long been sold,
he still found his way 
back to the Trinity.
Back to the banks
that cradled your 
family for nearly 
five decades.

Every rock you turned
over, every branch you
broke, each fish you
caught and released,
or caught and ate, 
filled your melancholic
being with the truth
of your soul.

As I hoard my half of
your ashes - knowing
one day I will offer some
to our river here - 
I am beholden to 
know you and the Trinity
are forever merged.

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