Ritual.  The swapping of the same jokes,

the same gentle jibes.  Wrapping yourself

in the familiar and its sense of continuity,

all the while knowing that things are about

to change.    Singing in the car.  Card games

at the table.  Vestiges of your childhood

more for me than you these days I suppose.

Every now and again a glimpse of the

child you were, when you’re overtaken

by uncertainty, some new experience

you haven’t quite mastered.  Sometimes

you still turn to me, less often now.

But your sky is wide open and flying is

what I trained you for.  So I’ll let go, when

I need to. Perhaps we’ll still sing,

differently.