There is a snapshot treasured in my mind, deep amongst the memories of useless equations learned for school, friends with names I’ve long since forgotten, and old family vacations. You are sitting in my mother’s chair, reading poetry aloud in funny voices, attempting to make me laugh. It had been a long day and in a moment of either panic or desperation, I declared I was giving up on poetry. It just wasn’t working. I was never going to be published; I couldn’t make my words flow and dance. You immediately sat me down and opened one of many poetry books lying around, explaining to me that some of the greats aren’t even that great at all. With your loud, full, warm voice, you had me laughing at the greats.
Now, I am one of those greats. But you didn’t think I was great enough to stick around.
As I pass the chair now, my books of poetry lying amongst the ones you read so long ago, I can just barely hear your voice. Everything is grey, and a chilling silence has settled in the house, as if it can still feel your ghost. God knows I still can.