Mother lived in the past,
I lived for the future,
& Caitlin lived in the present.
So we lived,
disconnected from one another.
My father’s influence had been stronger
in death than it had ever been in life.
His existence had left barely a ripple,
his lack of, infinite.
David was fire to Mother’s ice;
he was the warm brick
surrounding a winter night’s fire,
she, the cold marble,
framing the ashes of yesteryear
All I had were snatches of memories—
like a silent film or radio program—
incomplete, with nothing harmonizing
to give me the fullness of him.
The past was solid, the future, fluid.
We stood in the precious present,
for it was always being stolen by the past,
pushed into the future.