Dear Uncle Bill,

You have been gone for almost two years now, and I miss you like mad. This is the poem I wrote right before you passed away.

Two Summers

two-thirds full, two-thirds empty.

They were summertime, scurrying across the patio stones
tiny with backs of overlapping hard shields—
My best friend plucked a piece of grass
from between the slabs and showed me the trick;
she poked one in the middle.

It rolled itself into a ball, tight and quick, protecting
its soft belly. We giggled, and started searching
for more. Even their name was silly, roli-poli.

Last week, they removed two-thirds of my uncle’s stomach.
Cancer is that slice of grass that none of us
can roll him from fast enough. Tonight
they will cut him open again
and make him even less.

It seems a sin, dear Uncle, to make you smaller.

I am afraid to go to the hospital,
afraid to fill the room up with my with useless chatter,
or worse my ridiculous tears.

Roli-poli’s aren’t actually bugs—they are a distant
cousin to the lobster. They have gills and breathe
with the morning dew and the afternoon sprinkler.

Tuck tight, and pray—that is all we can do now.
There has to be someone who listens—doesn’t there?

Someone who pointed the roli-poli away from the waves,
and into the manageable ocean of back-yard.