Wednesday Night

Hours spent gathered,

kitchen counters

grazed with laughter.

Dogs hounding

the pizza man,

cold onion rings.

Tom Hanks

on a beach, gratitude

for sharing fries instead of

hand-printed footballs.

Empty plates, full-bellied,

clambering away from comfort,

I turn around to see your faces

grinning goodbye.

Golden tears drip down my

cheeks, a currency

of gratitude to catch and

preserve on paper.

If, one day, I witnessed three

sevens slot into a row, heard the

clatter of coins falling

into my open palms, I could not

feel as lucky as I do now, possessing

something that makes it so hard to

say goodbye.