For Will, almost 96

I want to paint pictures in the air and bring them to you wrapped in cinnamon and bows, but I worry you won't remember them if they blow away. Instead I bring you the weather on my cheek. Every week. And we spill over pages like pomegranate wine in goblets from the Crusades, where we only go on days when we aren't in courthouses or photographs or early November. Really it's just tea on the table, ginger peach, and I'm afraid that if I leave for too long you'll disappear. So I ask you questions I know you can't answer. Tell me the color of her eyes. It's fine, I say, if you just make it up (that's what I do when you ask me how I'm going to change the world one day). And we talk about dreams we never had or what it would be like to trade places with the stars. We sit in silence while sirens pass below us and pretend they are only taxicabs to the sky.