Hand against the Windowpane

Hand against the Windowpane

On certain days I swear

I hear you call out my name

Only to peer over my shoulder

To find I’m alone in the woods,

Axe mull in gloved hand,

Ears bent toward a phantom.

 

Other days I have trouble

Recalling your insouciant voice —

The sound of your laugh

Or the way you greeted me

When I’d make a phone call

On a lazy Sunday afternoon

After preaching my heart out…

 

“How’s my preacher boy?”

(Is that how you said it?)

 

I daydream a fair bit 

Wondering how you interact

With the life you left behind,

Are you still tuned in

Or am I the only one who

Remembers our relation?

I picture you watching,

but maybe you’re not.

Maybe I’m making it up.

 

Some days the chasm between us

Seems as vast as east is from west,

Like trying to appreciate eternity

Or articulate infinity,

The dimensions of time and space

Hem me in behind and before.

 

Other days—like Monday night—

The space between us is paper-thin

And my heart heaves with emotion.

I could sense you reaching out

Trying to touch the eternity in my heart

And I was reaching back, too, dad—

Heavenward toward your extended hand.

Could you see that?  Feel that?

 

I press my hand against the windowpane,

So close yet so far away—

You’re just on the other side.