I used to pass people in the streets
and look for your eyes.
I knew that
even if everything else about you changed,
I’d be able to recognize you by your eyes.
I think when they called dad
and told him you needed somewhere to stay,
it was like hospice workers calling
to ask if a person could die at home.
We didn’t know that then but we do now.
I’m sorry you didn’t die at home.
I’m sorry that you were alone.
I’m sorry that the last time I saw your eyes,
it was in a photograph,
and they were closed
were already gone.