Even though your name is lost to me,
you appear in my mind from nowhere
like the sum of two easy numbers.
Even though I know nothing
of your village, your prayers, the stories
of your hearth and your departure,
behind my eyes,
your struggles gather
beside the pool of dreams.
You appear with your tangerine curls
half pinned up, half fallen
onto the shoulder of worn cloth.
You tell me
that the hammock of grief I sometimes feel myself fall into
runs deeper than the wounds of this lifetime.
You say I have carried your pain, like a stone,
without knowing—we all have,
one after the other,
from one side of the River Shannon
across streams and lochs and the great
Atlantic, into the hungry mouth of the Hudson.
You want me to drop it now,
because enough is enough.
The gift you meant to give
and however pale it seems to me
you have woven it securely in my aura,
a blessing to accompany me across the wild waters,
a light from you to those who follow.