You flash into my mind at times,

voice saying my name.

I see you tall and proud in uniform,

hear your tales of snow,

building ice houses your training for the Korean War.

I miss you, the laugh at adversity that says I’m alive.

Like the mitered hinge of a wooden box,

you held us together.

Now I’m far from my home,

far from the place where your name

is engraved. But not far away,

you are still with me, in my jokes,

or when making popcorn well

knowing how you’d teased me of my failure–

the lump of lard mid bowl

or even with silly things like the touch of newsprint,

or when my car acts up and I can’t call.

We may have put aside your belongings but you still belong

at the heart of our family,

you were our stable door opened to the world.