You’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean. – C.P. Cavafy


Did you see the last full moon of your lifetime? The strawberry moon of June 2025, full on the
night you didn’t know would be your last? When did you last see the Milky Way, feeling like
you were a part of it? When did you last slap a mosquito? When did you shoo your final bee?
When did you last make love, and with whom? It drove me crazy how you always had your pick.
Who was the last person you raised your voice at? The last to make you cry? To laugh? What
book sat closed upon your nightstand, unfinished? What was the last poem in your journal? I
suppose we all die with work undone. Which piece of clothing did you last pass on to your
daughter? What was the last song your eldest son played for you on his new guitar? When did
your youngest son last give you a hug?


When you visit my home in Pittsburgh—three months before you leave us— we don’t know
your first trip to see me is also your last. Our Saint Patrick’s Day pub crawl, the polka dance you
reluctantly join me in, our pancake breakfast at a maple sugar farm open but two months each
year – an annual ritual we’re starting, I think. As we swing around to the chicken dance, I don’t
know we’ll never dance together again. When we walk around Regent Square and stop for a
cocktail, I gasp as you tell me about the four men in your life. I marvel at your plan to see the
ocean, to visit a man in the merchant marine – a man who has traveled the world, unlike you, a
man who said he could read your mind. Lightning and sunsets flash in your eyes. Too many
waterfalls, too many rainbows, too many mojitos, our walk in the park where the thoughtful ice
age has carved the terrain. As we walk from bar to bar, church to church, past the ice cream stand
from the 1950’s, the library surrounded by American flags, I assume this walk is one of many.
With a laugh you quip, Why did I drive six hundred miles to visit a place that looks just like
home?


Unlike me, you don’t need travel. You know how to front life, to face the wind, to find the
amazement in every day. So please, if you can, tell me what wonders you found at the end. What
was the last new song you discovered? When did you last call your mother, and what did you
talk about? When did you last go out dancing, draw a picture, sing a song? It seemed each song
was your first and last, each lover your one and only; every time we watched your children play
seemed the only one time that mattered.


Our last Sunday together, when we park too far away from the bagel shop, and you keep your
smirk silent as I make you walk in the cold. I don’t want to end our last hug before you get in
your car to drive the six hundred miles home. I feel pain as we say goodbye even though I
believe I’ll see you again in a few short months. Love you – see you soon. I stand outside
alone in the cool air for several minutes after you drive away.

For Kalissa Kay Reeder, 1987-2025