I know the time is coming
when you will no longer
leave fingerprints on my door
and we will not argue
at Christmas dinner
about the face of God.
Your chair will be cold,
your plate empty,
and I will watch your shadow
shrink on the sofa
and your voice
grow reed thin
and white
and your footprints on the carpet
will become
too light to stick.
Your coat will grow
too large in the closet
and the world will never
fill your shoes,
so I will shake the dust
off your best suit
and find the pictures I took of you
when you were laughing
and the bible
you kept by your bed
that I could not believe in
and I will tuck you in
for that long goodnight
that breaks the sky
and slip my small fingers
into your big hand
one last time,
and wait for the story
as big as my whole world
setting in your eyes.