We’re at that age when we discuss our parents dying
Together, the way we once discussed favorite books
Tentatively
Tenderly
A little terrified of what might be said
So one day at Scarborough Beach
I ask about your dad and the rocks
What will you do with them when he’s gone?
He is some twenty paces ahead
Walking with your mother
Tracing the flirting edge of water
You think for a while
Long enough that I know the weight of the question has fallen
(Like so many dusty dishes of stones)
Onto the floor of you
I’ll pack them into boxes, I guess
And I’ll bring them back here.
Some twenty paces ahead, your father bends, aching
Your mother stops to see
Another rock is brushed clean; is pocketed;
is landing heavily.
