Monday Mornings in August

I do the math the way Dad would expect.
Factor in one leap year, here we are again.
Another last Monday in August falls on this date.
Six years ago, early morning phone messages, how very low

he gets, who am I going to call
to tell me the news I already know?
My middle sister knows how
to calm me down.

I finally let him go
two days before. No one

should have to live without
their words, without
their mind, without
remembering

how to walk. That’s not how
I remember him.

My oldest sister says
Monday mornings in August
hurt the most. I know
what she means. Those last 27 breaths.

Connecticut, New Jersey,
even Ireland, could not contain him.
He’s out the door at dawn
to run along another stretch of the Atlantic.

We wave to each other as we cross paths
where I’m beginning, he’s finishing up.
No infection, no act of terrorism
can catch him now.

A gull hovers over the Old Head.
I hear a whisper break through the breeze
to signal summer’s end:
Even so, green was his favorite color.

3 thoughts on “Monday Mornings in August

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