After All

    by Maria Basile

On your birthday, the sun

rose quietly and let spring birds sing

reminding me of you.  As it opened

morning, I stayed in bed and read a book,

skipping Mass – I knew you wouldn’t mind.

The boy and I took a secret trip to the cemetery

and laid flowers on my mother’s grave.  Funny,

he picked just the bunch you would have chosen.

The girl and I left a message

on your machine, wishing you

a great and happy day.

I breathed diesel fumes

at Airport Plaza, because the one

I can’t say no to wanted

to watch planes take off and land.

After dinner I hugged and kissed

the only other person that I have called

my soul mate.  I kissed him on both

cheeks, remembering how you

like symmetry.

I hugged him again, and made him

hug me back, extra hard,

hoping you would feel it, too,

so far away.  After all,

we’re still the same person.

© 2010 Maria Basile

Maria Basile is a surgeon practicing in New York.  She teaches courses in Medical Humanities at Stony Brook University School of Medicine.  Her poetry has been published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, Touch: the Journal of Healing, and anthologized with the creative writing of other physicians and health care professionals.  A collection of her poetry, entitled Private Practice, is forthcoming from The Lives You Touch Publications.