Will you teach me?
Will you show me the intricacies of everything we do?
The ones I haven’t already learned, I mean.
You leave behind some big shoes for me to fill.
I never did have large feet.
You have helped me so much, and
now I must ask for more.
I was never good at asking for things, either.
But I have to ask –
my own legacy is at stake
as well as yours.
The entailments of your legacy
that you will pass to me
will be interwoven with the
entailments of my legacy
that I will pass on myself one day.
Every time I think of this I wonder can I do it.
Will you teach me,
so I don’t have to wonder anymore?
Teach me your legacy,
so I can grow my feet
to fit into your shoes.
But don’t teach me everything.
I mustn’t be dependent on you,
but I hope you hold back a useful tidbit or two,
that you can give me when I call you up in a panic right before we go to press,
because your legacy needs to live a little outside of my own head,
because I don’t want you to be gone forever.