We sit sipping coffee. Awkward. Growing cold.
My son and daughter, I say, in their 30s, have given me three grandchildren.
I know I’ll not mention today that I do think about you.
It’s been 40 years since we last spoke.
You’ve called me out of the blue, passing through.
The last time we crossed paths and spoke,
I said my then boyfriend, in one of his fits of rage,
had smashed and thrown away my flute.
You stunned me, going right out to buy me a new one.
I still have that flute, still play it all the time.
And every time I do, I think about my husband.
Do you remember the Jean-Pierre Rampal concert?
Thinking about it while we start and stop here,
our child would have been 44 this year.
So as we stutter our way along, near strangers now,
grown far and farther apart over 40 years,
I’ll not mention today how I do think about you.