Larry of the Winter Song

by Meg Smith

Larry of the Winter Song
in memory of Lawrence Carradini

December reaches with skeleton fingers —
white and dirty, falling from the boardwalk
to the brook. What is the waning sun, but Larry,
snowy in his ash — a heart, a voice, a brain
so fine, with jazz and poetry only a broken heart can know.
How did it happen, then — that a chain of mountaineers —
heart, bone, brain, kidney, liver, and blood —
all fell from this rocky cliff of our being?
Larry, I would keep you if I could, in the strength
of your muscle, and mind — but I know
I am falling toward you, every day, as daylight
grows less and less.
There was once a Larry, one toe nudging a hole
through a baby shoe, stomping down a hall,
posture perfect. Growing from a child’s bones
to the man who sang, cried and danced.
This is our child of bones, falling through
the net of our fingers. This, our Holy Family,
clings together, singing, as we fall
through the lap of stars.