and here we were and here we are. i am a revolving spindle of light, watching the world around me rise and fall.
today was as it should be.
and yet as i pushed myself, as i sweat, as i sat there – i heard music and i thought of his smile, his laugh.
he is dead. how is he dead. 42 for the rest of our days.
and later, i squinted into the sun and watched, and my eyes went soft. i missed her so viscerally, our easy talks, how i’d known her my whole life and walked into her house, the first grandchild. the jukebox and the piano in the basement, next to the bar. we sat at the kitchen table, working on the crossword puzzles.
i didn’t have to be anyone besides me when i went to see her.
she is dead, and i thought by keeping my distance after his death that it would somehow make it easier to tolerate her death. because she was the last one, and i couldn’t bear having no family. never did i want to feel the piercing wounds i felt three years prior.
but still it found me. still her loss haunts me because i deliberately avoided going there.
and i think of him, and i still hear his voice, his deep booming voice. aimee lynn, it’s your dad. as if i could ever not know the voice who sang me to sleep as a baby girl. i can never forget the smell of his skin and how different it smelled under the morphine haze before his death. but it still smelled like him, and i still pressed my face to him, still caressed his arm, holding his hand, hoping he would squeeze back. remembering his fluttering eyelids, trying to focus, trying so hard to focus.
he’ll never get to meet you. but he’s wrapped around me like a cloak, protecting me. when you look in my eyes, you will see my father’s love.