To Ethan

I miss 
steps in the sand, barefoot, around 
shards of shells turned by waves, and 
the distant cries of birds, and light 
reflected off whitewashed walls,
and the flames of our fire, built from
branches pulled from the treeline, 
and the lizard you found in the tall grass
and the beetles making tracks in loose dunes 
and the wind whipping sand against 
bare ankles and rolled up jeans— 
wet when you walked into the waves, 
arms outstretched to the setting sun, 
a dramatic silhouette as you yelled 
a monologue to the vast ocean. 

I miss 
weeds growing from cracks in sidewalk
and power lines against blue sky and 
flowers following cracks in walls and
familiar graffiti filling white paint 
and the lilac city from the top of that hill
that we crested before following the curve 
back to jasmine shading the tiles 
cluttered with the scraps of some experiment
and the tarp over the foundry, tools scattered 
in gravel, and the cacti in broken pots 
up the stairs—the one you named 
and petted sometimes, somehow, the one that
sprouted a flower, a pink bloom 
twice its size once a year; it and 
all its offspring you replanted, 
carefully, and collected on the broken stairs 
that burn with heat in summer,
but whose dust comforts bare feet. 

I miss 
the shopping bags tangled with cacti 
in bloom by the road, the road trip food—
candy bars and a cold coke and 
hot, greasy flat bread sold at toll stations
and maybe a massive watermelon
dripping with summer juice, or grapes
filled with seeds, or one of those 
flat peaches, or an apricot—
that we ate crammed into the too-small car 
sitting in the trunk of the old sedan, singing
all the words to “Love Story,” 
the three of us, plus friends-family, watching 
endless olive groves pass our windows. 

I know 
that I can miss the home that used-to-be, 
and love the home that is, mostly 
because you’re still here, ready 
to pace in my room in the early morning,
before we sleep, and rant about 
Base-5 Numerical Systems or 
the Potential of Virtual Reality or 
the newest idea for World Domination or 
whatever metaphysical dilemma 
haunts your mind, ready to 
humor my rants in return, but mainly 
we’re all still together, and that 
counts for everything. 

But still, I miss 
the memories we made there, 
even though the move was the right idea, 
and you live closer, now, and you’re 
an adult now (technically), and 
learning Calc III as a freshman, somehow, and 
I can still call when making midnight pasta 
and complain and commiserate and 
share thoughts about the movies we 
just watched, and the meanings 
Dad never wants to take time to
uncover when we watch together.

It’s new, now
and no longer can we walk 
down the block to the hanut for 
just a half-dozen eggs, or flour, 
or those awful shrimp chips you like. 

Now, we have 
the bridge over the lake, shining 
with setting sun trapped in ice, 
and the snowman we made (and 
the sun melted) in the yard, the one 
with two faces, and the park 
we went to as kids when the leaves 
carpeted the forest with golds and 
reds and browns, and bright moss on rotting logs,
and the fire pit in the yard, blazing
while we watch and laugh and dream together—
and we still have this family, and that 
was the core of everything, anyway.