July Day. (Hanging On)

Is this about Daddy or what?
She said, climbing into the car.
What Pumpkin?
Oh nothing.
Half to herself, as she buckled herself in.
And off to an exhibit we went.
So grown up, my Casual Child 

Just an afternoon jaunt
Not about anyone, really...
But in from the outside's hot, close, ocean air
There was a small cool room, with quiet images,
Walt Whitman
watching from the walls
And opposite, Patti read to him, graveside, in the sun.
On flickering film,  easy words
And for a few frames, she looked up, 
in
on
him, through protective bars -
commented on the weather, how perfect the day was...
smiling
a sweet connection spoken from one spirit to
another
conversing with him, she was
an all knowing, never-ending dialogue between two.

There is no one I've ever observed that seems to capture
loss and ever presence the way She does.
And when she spoke to him
it was an exchange I knew so well.
Recognized.
Because we still talk
and smile
and exchange thoughts.
There are so many ways
they
can
still
be
here.

I was grateful
that she reached
Out
Raised his eyes,
Acknowledged his Listen.

Lily drew quietly under his gaze,
with a sweet friend by her side,
handed me her work,
ran out for a peach.

But later I asked
What did you think of the exhibit?
It was fine, she said, and then an afterthought:
                                                
Peaceful.

In her hand a chalky white rock,
a dusty take-away from Rockaway.
Not about Daddy, for her at least,
but a piece of
remembrance
all the same.