Partners

Today, I will not remember my mower conking out on me,

the walk I took with Sheridan to the big rock,

or the first batch of summer nectarine salsa.

Nor will I remember doing laundry,

hooking up the sleep room air conditioner,

or even the way I ran over Cullen's prescription

with my car and how I had to take it into CVS

with tread marks and a dark puddle dampness.

I do not suspect I will remember the sermon I gave,

or the way the college kids looked at me, smiling,

because the title was "The Calculus of Sin."

I won't recall the sweat dripping down my back at the pulpit,

or my relief when the usher snuck up behind me and turned on the fan.

What I will carry with me is the sight of Joyce,

seventy or seventy-five with Alzheimers,

and her partner, Marie, not much older than I am.

The way Joyce sat right next to Marie on the pew bench,

how her tiny hands found Marie's leg to rest on,

her nails painted glitter pink.

How her chin dipped to her chest,

then rose every time Marie spoke.

And the way Marie kept talking with with Joyce,

using her soft hands to guide her partner

from one unknown to the next,

every word a term of endearment,

every action a vow of forever.