He is here
to visit his dying grandmother.
She lives in an apartment
building a few blocks away
from where we live,
and where he spent his childhood,
walking to and from school
or his part-time job, scooping ice cream.

Early in the morning
while on our daily walk in the hush,
we go past the building and vow–
should we but glimpse his sorrow–
to run away
and release him to his privacy.

No one's around.
The TV vans that cover every moment
of his life sit quietly in the church
parking lot across the street.
We walk back home
and on the way,
stop beneath an opiuma tree
that sheds its petals in the coming light
to the shine of tears.