A friend took this picture. Someone I have known for a very long time, and hadn't seen for a very long time, too. She is in Paris, visiting her cousin, and next week she will visit her daughter, who is studying in England. She shared with me some questions the picture brought to mind, and I asked if she could send a higher-resolution version, toward its poem. And so it was.
FENÊTRE
for Tarek
there was rest in the rising
their breakfast made, his lunch
packed and him with it
the dishes waiting until
he’d made his way up the hill
out of sight
from the window she’d watch him
her hands clasped, her chin
atop them
the waddle of his body
she thinks, tired already
too early, too soon
now she waits
until she knows he’s gone
as if he were still working
still walking to work
still “with us,” as his sister says
of those who are no longer
this is the rest, she thinks
the better part of resting
when everything else is waiting
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