The Small Movements
by Daniel Henry


Sunday morning, changing the oil in our driveway.
It has been a warm February- gray, threatening rain.
Crocuses we didn't know were there
Have started around the mailbox.

Twenty years ago your father taught me
The small precision Of this task:
Pull the drain plug and spin the filter off,
Catch the dripping oil. Too cold and it will not drain,
Too hot and you can't stand to touch it.
"Take your time or you'll forget something,"
He said four or five times.

On the radio, Don Hall's talking about
Throwing the medicine away
The final trip home from the hospital,
Then about holding Jane
The last afternoon of their last day.
He's remembering the small movements
Of her eyes under lids:
She took quick breaths, slowed, stopped.

Lying under the car, I move the oil drip pan
And I am surprised by the outline of a leaf
In concrete last wet thirty years or more ago.
From the door speakers, Don's voice continues.
There are spaces between the words
Between New Hampshire and Indiana,
This life and that one, past.

You are inside reading the Sunday Herald Times.
Outside, I am overcome by leaf, voice, sky and you.
I am surprised by my weeping for the separation
We will have decades from now
Weeping for the second cup of coffee
You are drinking in the kitchen, feet up on the chair,
For the smell of new motor oil on my hands,
The small movements we have made together for years.






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