Do You Remember?


O Beloved, do you remember

the light dancing on the stairs,

the snow falling,

and the two of us,

alone in the world?

Remember the girl

at the top of the hill

and the soaring yellow bird

set against the forest green

and kneeling and then rising

on ordination day

and looking out

on New England

one autumnal afternoon

and seeing the future?

And do you recall

that happy resignation

as I lay on the operating table,

and the leap for joy

in the delivery room,

and the green and golden stained  glass

glowing down  the nave,

and all the faces of those

I’d been given to love?

And those difficult times we shared,

you remember:

the strange mark of the cross

in the floor when I was told

the devastating news,

that final ‘no’ on the beach

and all the furniture I broke

in anger in the cellar.

And the decision for joy

at the edge of the sea

— I’ll never forget that —

and then falling into trust on Nantucket,

and the fireflies’ greeting

in the fields by the river

and all the times

at the table


re-membering you,


you then,

you now,

you ahead.


Edward R. Dufresne © 2013

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