Whispered On the Wind

These days are short, as I begin to walk—my daily custom now— toward the place where, after treatment, you lie resting. I dream each day of when I'll come and take you home. But then I hear my name, whispered on the wind, and words besides that simply say, "Sundial. Five o'clock today. A message waits for you." And with this, the wind falls silent. On langourous summer days we'd often wander in the park until we came to where that sentinel of silence stood and watched, as minutes drifted by, implacably, the gnomon's shadow gliding— one polished marble marker to the next. Well into season now, the autumn air has chilled my face. And westward, the ruddy sun's disk settles, its destiny fulfilled. I look down toward the dial just as the shadow grows indistinct. The mark etched there means that five o'clock has just passed. I pause awhile but then turn back to where l had just come, for in the silence there that deafens, I know that you are gone. Dedicated to those who have lost a loved one to the Covirus and disdain for those who don't seem to care; their number is legion.