Even Happiness Makes Me Sad

by Naomi Shihab Nye

You aren’t here to feel it with us or
remember anything we already lived through.

I rode a cable car thinking how the Little You
loved the conductor’s foot on the pedal,
his right hand ringing the bell by a rope.

That same day I rode a Waymo
imagining the Big You
marveling, studying the screen.

Rain pouring all night in December.
Drenched leaves.
Snips of colored paper.
Ribbon too small to tie.