Before, the leaves turned orange like the basketball we passed back and forth in the fall.
The gray air never settled as we jumped on leaf trampolines.
I’d pick the pumpkin and you’d carve it with a serrated knife, up and down the stairs.
Back when it was just me and you, and sometimes Blue or Thomas or Ash, the sun glowed and twirled up and down and around.
It wasn’t graceful, but it was warm and honest, like the arms of a father that have grown rough and leathery with copper and brass,
the arms you once ran to as a child that now hold a bottle
the same way you used to hold me.
Orange skies gave way to a red forehead and grass became for mowing, not laying.
They say blood is thicker than water, but Jesus didn’t say anything about turning wine back into water when you’ve had enough and need a hug, or a dad, or maybe if it was my blood that became wine I would be what he wants and needs after work and we’d both smile because we’d both get what we want.