Eleanor

She sleeps in my arms

as I fall in love with her

tiny body.

All the parts there—

the perfect curve of a fingernail,

the rhythmic rise of a ribcage thin as paper.

Every breath a quiet victory I didn’t earn,

but get to keep for a little while.

She changes every day;

it’s so hard to wake up as she sleeps and sleeps

until her eyes open

and those deep blue eyes look at me.

What can she really see

as I bend low to kiss her forehead,

soft skin against my lips?

And I sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow,

where the lullaby land is right here,

tucked between my shoulder and my chin.

Where the sky is soft and the clouds are skin,

and the trouble melts like lemon drops.

George in the hospital

At ninety-eight,

the years are a blurred map,

except for this:

the sharp, clear grief of a son’s funeral

and the way the Mendelssohn rose

to meet the rafters.

His hand lifts—

a slow, ghost-weight motion

cutting through the heavy air of the room.

He is conducting the shadows now,

guiding a choir only he can hear,

every finger an instrument of memory.

He pays attention to the phrasing,

the swell of the alto,

the steady pulse of the bass.

He is practicing for his entrance.

The score is almost finished.

He is smoothing his lapel,

steadying his breath,

ready to step onto the riser

and find his place

between his wife and his son.