Isako Isako are you leaving me. How much longer Isako will you remember me.
Isako Isako is there an end and if so is it near.
Isako Isako will I see you again.
Isako Isako all that remains of you is bone. My hand on your back as you lower onto the white couch each vertebra’s unmasked articulation against my palm.
Isako Isako have you run to your end.
Isako Isako I turn the pages of your life and find you on every spread. Eyes solemn beneath a thick cut of bangs. Elbow deep in rose clippings. Left foot slightly extended to accentuate the line of your body. An Isako for every age.
Isako Isako I hand you your reading glasses. I bring you another Kleenex.
Isako Isako I want so badly to smooth the hair back from your forehead the way my daughter likes it when I sing her to sleep.
Isako Isako you have so many faces.
Isako Isako if I could reach out and touch one that would be enough.
Isako Isako I long to take your words in my mouth press your palm to my own and watch the skin dissolve. Is this possible. Can your breath become mine.
Isako Isako without you there is no point of origin nor departure.
Isako Isako outside your window the cherry tree is alight with blossoms.
Isako Isako you reach through time to take my hand. Creases in your papery skin. Smooth fingers gently tapered.
Isako Isako yours is such a small hand.
Isako Isako air passes from your lungs through the chest cavity blessed by your throat your lips your teeth and tongue.
Isako Isako you place a prayer in my hand now clasped in yours the air in the room suddenly stirred with movement.
Isako Isako my hands now brim with you. See how they overflow onto this page breath spilling across the distance all that white that space. Swelling to fill it.
Isako Isako in the space of your breath I am indwelt breath that now fills my own lungs this page my hands this chest my voice.
Isako Isako I can see it now.
Isako Isako there is no end.
Isako Isako I is you.