Here is the day ...

Here is the day that Andrew died 

eleven years ago. Eleven years

of getting on without him —

although of course he is still 

present in other ways, always. 

It was better weather that day

than this, I think, though I didn’t 

see much of it, sitting with him 

from just after breakfast until

the shocking silence, when his breathing 

suddenly stopped, five hours later.

This year, at last, I remembered

my dear niece’s birthday, September 1st,

on the actual day as well as beforehand

and some time after – the first year it wasn’t 

eclipsed as soon as September began

by today’s date looming. One more 

milestone in the long re-adjustment.

This isn't such a very small poem! But then, what it describes is not exactly small, either.