The Visit

shutting our eyes we see the moment,
the door opening, the car shut down.
he emerges fresh, though the drive
over mountains fatigued softly,
like a morning mist settling
on copper before turning green.
any dust he flicks off his shoulders
encased in polyester sweats,
a style suited for long trips,
autumn’s chill, winter’s
cringing cold.
he grips our hands, claps backs,
a football coach greeting lost teammates
after twenty years of mold.
into the house we go,
he pausing by the porch swing,
one swift memory of summer song,
of girls held tight
at midnight’s hour.
inside we grab hotdogs and beer,
the laughter muted by years
we never shared.