To a Ghost Not Gone
El Señor es mi Pastor. Nada te faltará.
I search for ways to say goodbye,
fumbling through the moments I remember best.
You kept me in a safe, your little treasury,
and left me with piles of pocket change and your voice,
scratchy Spanish on an old cassette,
dust that hasn’t found a place to settle.
Me guiará por sendas de justicia, por amor de su nombre.
You tried to sweep
the broken bits beneath the rug,
but now they cut our feet and we cry,
not for the ache of your absence,
but for the things you left behind.
Mi copa está rebosando.
I watch little ones pluck petals
and drop the tattered stems on the dirt.
I want to kiss your cheek
to give you one final farewell,
but I don’t know how to reach you,
or what language will carry my voice
across the distance.