7.27.16

If — 
 I was told today — 
 — is half a lifetime.

Of this, and my career,
the man at the window seat was convinced.
I, less so.

Which half?
I have to wonder.

The half filled with laughter and cautionary tales told by your family;
soft smiles, Aviations in hand
(because Gin is awful, because your father told me you loved it).

Or the other half
your name conspicuously absent from memos and invitations,
but omnipresent in the shadows under your sister’s eyes — 
 — your eyes.
The ones you don’t open anymore.

Every ‘if’ is you falling onto the tracks again.

There is no window seat wisdom for that.