I inhaled the soot-sotted grime
of New York’s summer,
exhaled your scent: lavender and rose.
Let me explain, because
you had gone to Yankee Stadium
solo, or with someone else,
who knows. Certainly not me,
who always inhaled whatever blackness
New York offered, you always said.

The Yankees were in town,
winning or losing I don’t know,
you’d be surprised to hear,
with all the cards, keychains, jerseys,
helmets, autographs. The Mantles and Marises,
the Judges and Jeters, the Ruths and Rodriguezes.
You name it.

I pictured you in that pinstripe jersey
I had bought for your birthday
and how you posed in your garden,
and how I took that photo
that you said made you look optimistic, haha.

That day the photo came to mind
as the soot entered and the grime choked,
and I realized, I realized,
that’s not what I needed,
that’s not what I wanted,
that’s not what I had to have.

So, I gave myself lavender and roses
and thanked you,
knowing it was too late,
anyway.

E.H. Jacobs is a New England-based psychologist and writer. He is the author of the novel Splintered River, as well as two books on parenting, professional papers in psychology, and articles for the general public on psychological topics. He has been a contributing book review editor for the American Journal of Psychotherapy, and has served on the clinical faculty of Harvard Medical School. His writings can be found in the Santa Fe Literary Review, Hippocampus, and others.