Sometimes, disbelief tackles denial.

Can it really be over thirty years?

That’s right, you do not know

I’m a parent, the kids now grown.

Any sort of update seems pointless.

All I want to say is

How are you?

Parked by the mailbox,

perhaps this downpour,

seatbelt bound tight,

a forced gift of discretion.

Is it a cop-out to let nature

decide these matters?

The thunder says no.