What does not die

What does not die is that Michael is dead.

His absence persists.

No matter how many nights I spend

sitting around a kitchen table

with friends

drinking Bordeaux;

No matter that I’ve been to Northern Thailand and back

zipping stop-and-go through the streets of Bangkok

to magnificent palaces with their reclining, Lotus, standing and fasting Buddhas,

Meeting travelers from villages and cities worldwide—fascinating people

with wondrous and tragic lives;

No matter that I’ve meandered through the wats of Chiang Mai and

jumped in with a group of some twenty Chinese residents

to practice Tai Chi

at dawn

before the old wall,

He is gone.

 Tinging temple bells, incense and chanting,

rice festivals and temple-gate dedication ceremonies,

squatting over a hole in the outhouse floor

in a village three-and-a-half hours

by single-lane-switchback, dirt road

through mountains;

pausing to shoo Brahman cattle off the road,

carefully honking around each bend as

our truckload of children and adults

gathered high in the back

like a bouquet of black-haired flowers;

in the truck,

pop-Thai crooners on the radio and laughing

over jokes

made

in staccato

syllables,

 joyously sing-song,

and,

still,

Michael is gone.

 I’ve hiked through the countryside

amongst orchids and chickens,

gazed over vistas of terraced coffee growing

between mango and lychee groves,

lingered by a babbling stream

overlooked by huge elephant-ear leaves

reaching skyward and sideways,

Cowbells softly sounding,

and

he is still gone.

I’ve hiked to mountaintop temples,

climbing thousands of stairs,

"Sawadee-d" monks galore,

Peeped into bat caves and shared panoramas

with friends

and huge blessing Buddhas

and

still he is gone.

 I’ve painted with village children a new senior center

 and photographed

countless cornices, villages,

markets with exotic fruits,

vegetables, and plastic-ware stalls with

 altars to emaciated gurus

 and always

  a photo of the king

 and sometimes the queen,

 seen maggots and other juicy caterpillars for sale

for human consumption,

 eaten fried bananas and black rice with coconut milk

 from a hollow piece of bamboo,

 but the taste of his absence never leaves.

 And I am hungry to rejoin him

 despite the beauty and need of life and lives around me.