The Artist's hat and hands that look like mine

You wore that old hat with the fish on the front and I knew just how you smelled and, at the time, I believed it would never go away.

I remember rattling though your drawers of acrylics and oils with all those knives and brushes, for which I couldn't name a single one.

I remember you cutting your finger while working at the bench and realized then that even you were mortal.

I worried when you mowed a steep bank or carried a heavy air-conditioner when you were wearing your hat.

Sometimes, I'll try to smell it but I can never smell you in it - but I do often, when I simply don't try.

You would play "Shine on Harvest Moon" on the piano in the basement. You know, the one with the ivories that you fixed with kitchen formica? But even if I had that piano, it wouldn't be you.

I hated to go see you sitting in that geriatric chair - tracing the outline of the tray - over and over again in loneliness. You ate every bit of her apple-pie, and you traced the plate to get every morsel.

After I went, I was glad that I did, even though I couldn't make sense of it.

When you died, I wasn't with you. They said you had coffee-ground emesis on your last day. You were turning inside-out. I don't even remember the exact calendar day - but I will always remember the day you were born.

So you tell me this: My possession of you will never let me be with you. But why is it only so, when I don't try?