Kaddish for an absent father

I knew you, God,

in my mother's breath,

and her sighs

that she thought I 

couldn't hear,

late at night,

and sometimes in the evening,

when she reached for 

a dish,

or a glass,

or a box 

kept on a high shelf,

and the effort

of her stretch

added to the effort 

of her days,

and Your name 

escaped her, unbidden,

hidden by the rustle

of days and time.

She thought I didn't hear.

But that is how 

I knew You first.

She taught me

effort and stretch

and the glory of Your name,

the simple in and out of

breathing,

that is awe,

and fear,

and mercy,
and love. 

I knew you, God,

in my father's absence,

a hollow presence

that became

faded

over time

and the wheeling of stars.

Stars are impossibly

beautiful and 

improbably far,

and silent,

like solitude,

or the grace

of longing.

Absence settles in,

a blanket of Almost 

and hoped-for.

And I could feel 

You there

in its folds

and tattered edges,

and the 

absence of 

my father's 

touch.

And I know you God,

in this ache

of loss 

that breathes through me,

this grief that 

began with absence 

and time,

and ends

with a single 

breath

a last

sigh

a whisper of Your 

Name.