Of all who've gone, I miss you most. I miss you in your flowered dress and black shoes, that great big house of oak and plaster, of tall ceilings and loud pianos, I miss clomping up the front steps and flipping open the mail slot so I could be the first one to smell the fresh sauce and meatballs; I miss your orange soda and hugs, me singing/you clapping. I miss my cheeks never not hurting from all the love pinches, your laugh, the way you raised your eyebrows and shook your hand with an "Eeeeee!" that said ten words with one syllable.
I miss you on the phone with me at night after the late news; I always knew you'd be up. Yours is my late night gene, and that other gene, the one that reminds me of love every time I think of you, and I think of you then with hair teased high, your long gloves, beautiful, and I think of you long after your knuckles buldged, after your body bent and your knees gave way, beautiful. Your 93 years too brief.
I saw the boat you came over on when you were just one. I wanted to put it here:
I saw your name on the ship manifest, and your mother's and brother's names. I know that your other brother died two weeks before you were born; I know he didn't make the trip. But you did.
Yours is a family of long journeys, of rough waters, of welcome arrivals and sudden departures.
And today I miss you more.
