I am with you on Thursdays

On Thursday, hustling off to rehearsal,

I walked past people, but not with them.

 

In rehearsal, the baton would tug a lyrical line,

but I could not stay with the altos beside me.

 

On the subway home, I sampled the offerings

on scroll: babies, pets, vacations, politics,

a death—“my thoughts are with you”—birthdays, baking.

 

Earlier in the day the instructor paused

structuring queries to say, “Are you still

with me?” then continued anyway.

 

Silken paws now trail me back at home,

settling down with me, just out of reach—

 

like companions settling down with so-and-so,

in a new city, new job, doing such-and-such.

“I’m still here for you whenever you need me.”

 

This is how it goes.

I am with you becomes I am with you

on Thursdays

once every month

or year

(if I’m in the area).

 

Beyond my feet, a slow feline blink:

I love being with you                      from over here.

 

Your notes would still arrive, weeks after mine,

sometimes a few months, but they’d arrive,

counselling my soul in PILOT Acroball extra-fine,

as silent solid proof, “My thoughts are with you.”

 

Once a year Holy Thursday marks

Immanuel, God with us, saying,

“I am with you to the end of the age,”

then ascending away.

 

That Sunday morning, though off-key, off-time,

I sang with the choir with gusto.

Text: Sharon Lam

Photography: Wladimir Figueiredo