I thought of you for the first time today in 3 years, and I think you know why. That song about the River that always brings me back to your palms. Winter's cracked mine to ruin, ancient in its destruction, but in some ways I can see my veins without consequence. I've always been fascinated with currents.
Vermont is too far from Chicago. But probably a little closer to you, somewhere off in the cheek of a mountain, or the lips of a brook trout. I've haven't eaten fish since you died; the day after your funeral, I bought a book on reincarnation.
You are more migration than memory. I used to say I saw Mississippi in your eyes. Nose as delta. Mouth made of sea. I hope you're still swimming, with broad shoulders as fins, and hands probing the riverbed, softly, searching for fossils.