William

Before you could speak,
you listened to classical music
your father played
on a vintage piano
while your mother
cradled her stomach
and hummed along,
whispering, William,
this is for you.

When you touched land,
you learned the concept of time,
how people age and die,
how some die before they age.
Your mother fought breast cancer
as you buried yourself in books,
movies, music that made you cry
because you knew
she wouldn’t make it.

People walk through
moments they can’t get back.
They don’t notice you,
but you notice each of them,
the fabric of their coats,
their faded smiles,
rushing to find a new obstacle
with a muffin in one hand,
a phone in the other.

Love is everywhere.
Why are you praying to leave?
People are worried.
Your father doesn’t know
how to sit down with you
and listen to your pain
because this is new to him, too.
You can’t expect to be given
what has never existed.

There is a point in all of this.
A beautiful heartache
that devours you, nestles
beside you while you pray.
You turn up the volume
to a song you haven’t heard.
Your mother’s baking your favorite pie.
William, she says,
this is for you.