a poem about the unexpected loss of a past young lover
(read this at his funeral)
This morning, as I plucked my brow,
the pinch was sharp, but I allowed
the sting to fade, knowing no pain
could ever measure losing you.
I remember the way your hands moved—
deliberate, always sure.
How you’d bottle up the smallest joys:
a favorite song, a quiet walk,
rolling down hills at the park,
skipping rocks, laughing until we cried—
the kind of moments we forget to save.
Now my jar feels hollow in my hands,
but the weight of you is everywhere.
I see you in sunlight scattered
on the floor,
in the way the air shifts softly at dusk,
in memories unbidden,
in songs as tender as you always were.
They say the world keeps turning,
that you learn to live with
the ache.
But I stay still, replaying the details:
the curve of your sweet, big smile,
the hum of your quiet laughter,
your god-awful broken Spanish
that Mama Mendez somehow always understood.
Even now, I feel you here, Willy—
a presence I can’t touch or see.
And though you’re gone,
probably racing Corvettes in the sky,
with your precious cat Toby riding shotgun,
you left behind a light,
a gentleness,
a kindness so rare, so unshakable.
