I remember the weekends away—
I thought nothing of them until I grew older
and understood—
you needed time
together
or for yourself.

He was preparing
himself, I imagine, to
accept
that long night
on the horizon.

I think of the hills in the
countryside where I would stay;
quick,
sudden, drops
from their glossy tops
to the bottom
near a mop of thorn and itch.

How I would stand at the top
and then fall,
catching my feet beneath me
at the last moment
and kick my feet
to race my fall and keep composure—

and I never won,
ending up atop the
long,
uncut,
splinters of grass that tangled
and intertwined each blade
into a cool bed of green over
the pale earth

and it would tickle
at the nape of my neck as I’d wonder
and think to move
but could not possess the will
to escape
the meaninglessness—
this memory
where the air is still fresh
and I am content.