Seventy Miles

That was the distance he drove,
twenty-three years ago,
to see me.
    
A small number beside the miles
he drove with me beside him
in the bright, gone days.
    
But far enough, that one day,
that he sat waiting
in the driver's seat,
too tired to stand up.
    
And I, heedless,
cannot even remember
what I said to him,
or he to me.
    
Now I wonder how far he traveled
to want to see me
one last time,
but never tell me
he was ill.
    
All that we said,
or might have said,
lost,
and I don't know
what it meant to him.
    
But to me,
twenty-three years on,
it is still a gift
too sharp to hold
for long.