thank God you were
more stone than cheese:
with age your edge came off.

although firm your shape remained,
its contents softened,
because discipline undiscerned
like any apple
also bruises.

mirth is not what we have
you down for
in our big, square books;
still I swear
everyday more clearly
I hear the tinkers’ cartwheel rumble
of your happy laughter.

never will we all be together
to take the decisive picture;
we trickle on
folding addendums into the album.

but each page points back to you,
even when you’re not there;
each page is our way
(very little yet not lost)
of showing thanks.