Open Spaces

Open Spaces

He is here in the open spaces,
the breath between words;
the slip of the tongue-
including him in the present
though his body is now of the past.
Still he is here, in conversation,
in the center of two women
comparing stories of our boys.

He is here in the eyes
of his eager younger brother,
moving to the center of the roles,
one now empty, unsure now
what role he will fill with all that
open space around him. 
He was here this weekend
as old friends got together
for the first time…since.

What to say, not to say,
to a grieving mother just a mere
season after loss, a father, a brother?
Would there be that elephant
in the room, the one the unexperienced
dare not to mention as if a mother
could forget this fresh new open space.

So much in common, two sons,
the same years apart,
though ours were always behind theirs
by a few years, our conversations
in the past, often led to the more experienced
giving advice of what we had coming. 
Now I cannot imagine needing
the advice we might be welcoming:
how to live with the open space
where a child once occupied. 

I need not have been worried.
He was there, yes, in two families
laughing about antics of our boys.
He was there in their questions
about our sons, our comparisons,
their concerns for their eldest,
preparing for colleges no longer relevant,
their pride in his accomplishments.

These stories didn’t die with him.
They are phantom limbs, like him, still there
in the early morning, in the careless comment
before memory breaks in and reminds them
he is no longer there.  But yet, he is. 
As if, where there are two gathered
speaking his name, he is there. 

Why must our society teach us
be afraid of the open spaces?
So eager we’ve become, we fill the spaces
with busy prattle, nervous content bound for offense
without meaning to offend.  Perhaps instead,
we could acknowledge the spaces, allow them to exist
without judging, diagnosing denial.  Let them sit
in their bubble at the table, include the name
in conversation and listen, share,
be present at the birth of their memory. 

As long as he is alive in those he loved,
in those who knew him, in those
who learn of him while listening
he will be remembered.  And this memory, 
so unlike flesh and blood, will never die
as long as he is part of the conversation,
as long as we remain unafraid
to live among the open spaces
as long as we become unafraid
see these space for what they really are…
           love.