I used to call my brother on the way home,
reception best on the bridge,
Berkshires behind me, Catskills grey in the distance ahead,
medium Hudson flowing below, freshwater miracle.
It’s been a dry summer,
October colors seeping fast and brittle,
rather than glorious finale
tourists spend their nickels to gawk at,
hushed by the majesty of Death.
On Sunday it will be four months.
I resist the urge to ask Bluetooth to dial your number,
pretend I could fill the car with our shorthand conversation,
blanks filled in by half a century’s shared history.
Some mornings the bowl of the river
holds a belly of mist,
night’s coolness colliding with the sun’s unyielding light.
As if the fog ever turns.
As if it wouldn’t slip thru fingers,
body cold, without the motivation
of electric life.
As if our words, our preferences
might change anything.

Twice a Best of the Net nominee, Cheryl Rice’s previous publications include Dressing for the Unbearable (Flying Monkey Press), Until the Words Came (Post Traumatic Press), and Love’s Compass (Kung Fu Treachery Press). Her monthly column, The Flying Monkey, can be found at https://hvwg.org/.