If I let the calendar sit in my psyche, 
holding all these months without
 
you, Dad, my chest begins to hurt. 
You remember: nerves rise, feet 
 
disappear from underneath when you’re
unable to moor, missing a life-anchor.
 
We, the living, are left with our milestones. 
Maybe we’ll visit Staten Island again,
in the hot tub and pool between BBQ
and chatter, veggies and watermelon. 
 
Maybe no one will want to celebrate. 
Not because my father was everything, 
but because I’m not the only one who 
lost their way in the ocean of this year.