I think of you flying high above the dark Atlantic,
all night the drone of jet engines in your ear,
returning to your origins. Arithmetic
makes all crossings precarious, but I do not fear
what angels have labored to provide. My mind
is a postcard with snowy mountains and Swiss
lakes. I am barely visible in the photo. You'll find
me in the amulet circling your neck. That is
as dear as the message on the card you sent:
"I am never far from you, since I carry you
in my heart wherever I go." Since you went,
I watch the calendar as the days accrue.
And I feel the miracle of things, a miracle which is
fearless in the face of darkness and distances.