Tomorrow our month begins
without you, Dad,
to cheer us on,

without the lights
that open windows
to a calendar—the one

that takes me back
to a scene in New Hope, PA,
where you treated us

to a day by ourselves
with you about to be 39,
me about to be 13

(exactly a third your age,
the way we like our math),

and you bought me that teal silk
(never wool for you or me)
sweater, and I felt so grown up,

and you were weeks away
from your jumping off place,
me from my first kiss.