I do not know why
we have been granted
more time together,
but we have.
I do not begin to understand
how you vanished in front of me
and then returned, but you did,
your lashes fluttering open
and with a sharp intake of breath,
you came back—from what or where
you don’t recall.
How often does that happen?
Rarely, people told us,
those with gentle hands
and smiles, those who came
to your side, who jolted
you back to life, who put
you back together again.
Now you rise in the night
hoist your legs over the edge
of the bed, cross your arms
over your chest, rock to stand
and head for the bathroom.
I say, “You go, guy,” aware
of the great good fortune
that allows me to hear your
laugh in the night.
Then I hear you coming back
to me, feel the weight of you
sit, pause, slide between flannel,
feel your hand reaching for mine.
In this soft dark the cliché feels
newly born: How lucky are we
to be granted this bonus time?
The answer blooms like the
first snowy pear blossoms
set against a winter-blue sky:
so very, very lucky.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jan Haag is a Sacramento writer who teaches journalism and creative writing at Sacramento City College. She leads writing workshops in an old loft on weekends so she can get some of her own work done. She is the author of a poetry collection, “Companion Spirit,” and is working on a novel set in Sacramento in the 1950s and 1970s.