Ricola

Walking in the pink mist of the neighborhood sunset

the whippoorwill’s weeping warble reminds me 

that I continue to live without you.

I think I pretend sometimes that you are only hiding

underneath a pile of honey-lavender Ricola wrappers,

the kind that would collect and tumble out of the pocket

of your yellow rain jacket. 

The ones that would leave a Hansel and Gretel trail 

behind us on our short walks from the parking lot

to the Chinese restaurant.

Yes, I imagine that these little pieces of Alpine 

plastic have finally overtaken you. 

But soon, on a candy-colored night not unlike this one, 

I will find you emerging from the mound at the end 

of your parent’s driveway.

With a bugle pressed to your lips, you will play

some silly triumphant tune, mimicking the aging 

mountaineer from the advertisement.

I will laugh and you will wink at me slow

like you always did. 

And we will take each other's 

hands and move softly into the magnolia light.