This is the year
I hardly took any photos of you at home
because you refused to wear clothes
except two necklaces
which you never took off,
one a strand of fake pearls
and the other a piece of black string
with a wooden giraffe
that our friends brought you from Africa,
and then there is your hair
which you rarely comb
and since it hangs the length of your back
it almost feels like its own outfit,
and there were the fake tattoos for a while too
that circled your arms like snakes,
but aside from all that
it’s just been your bare skin
sitting at the dining room table
not the least concerned
that it’s winter now
and some of us are eating supper
while wearing two pairs of socks,
but the whole year
I’ve been trying hard to remember you this way
since there will be no photos,
like I said,
and I’m grateful for it,
because the effort of noticing
has pressed the memory
into my heart
of how relaxed and open you are right now
inside a body that you still trust
with the most beautiful clarity
to do and look
exactly as it is
and nothing more.
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