Going to that Place

There’s no way of going to that place,
of following him through those dark corridors.
You have to just let go, and try to catch one last glimpse
   that inevitably comes in the form of a photograph.

That photo doesn’t contain the solace of words;
   its stripped of personal quirks,
of laughter,
   of throw-stuff-across-the-room anger.

That photo doesn’t call unexpectedly
   for a spur-of-the-moment question.

You let go as you let go of a child,
   hoping she will thrive in a cold environment
and always wear the badge of her upbringing:
   Your body of work.

You let go, with some pride but with some sorrow, too.
You try not to cry as she braces herself for the world
   and you brace yourself for the solitude.

When you do cry
and the tears have run out,
   you just smile because--
that’s really all you have left.