“Hut. Hut.” Rhythmic words of a musician
playing football with his #22 son, who
bear-hug tackles his father,
husband I lost.

They move on the field in a line of seamless
grace, one a reflection of the other,
point and counterpoint, inseparable
even in their divergence.

Sweet, beautiful melody unsung for we three,
divided family. Haunted, hidden,
is it there even now, inside these
fragile music-box hearts?

On the field it is 4th and 10. My son risks
it all, makes the catch, holds on loosely,
then takes the fall. Transfer of possession:
painfully beautiful.

In harmonic silences like this I can
almost hear forgotten symphony.