Naming Jack

There is nowhere I can go
that you are not present.
The hairpin turn that took us
away then returned us home.
The overlook where you placed silver
in my daughter’s palm so she could see
April’s gray bowl of valley.
The very museum window
through which we looked out upon rushing
brown water, red brick from another century
and hills that leave only a thin strip of sky.
This is the cost of living in a small place.
I came here to escape my life
without you, forgetting
that everywhere we’ve ever been
will always be ours. When we last
climbed that winding mountain road—side
by side—we were busy choosing
a name for the puppy we’d soon have.
Like expectant parents, we were too full
imagining a future to realize
the moment we were living
could be all we’d have left
once we drove into that cloud.