Dear Finn,
I went for a walk in the dark tonight
and spoke to you as I have since
you first died, which is to say
I greet you, then listen.
What I heard tonight, of course,
was silence, the silence
beneath the rustling leaves,
the silence surrounding each star,
the silence you’ve joined.
I love the listening.
Love these moments of feeling
closer to you simply because I lean in.
I have long since stopped asking
for a sign you are somehow here,
though earlier tonight I noticed
how my battery-operated candle
kept flickering like a firefly—
the very candle I said your name into
to invite your presence into the room.
What if that flickering
was you saying hello in a way
that you can? Part of me
rolls her eyes. Part of me
remembers how to listen
to the language you speak now,
mysterious, unlikely, unknowable.
I guess it would be harder for you
to reach me these days when
I’ve come to trust the silence,
but now, staring at the steady candlelight
across the room, I begin to remember
there are so many ways you return.
Why would I try to explain it away?
I begin to remember how to listen.