I can still remember the shape of it,
It exists somewhere beyond me,
Laced and reminiscent with the sugary
bitterness of a memory.

A whisper in my ear.
A chime ringing, tingling, sweetly.
My heart fills and depletes as
if living and dying in perfect synchronous unison.

A man scratches his head as he looms
over a book. Words too large for me
to comprehend, he says.
And I believe him.

He has taught me to always believe him.
So, I sit quietly and he reads.

Today my mother is here.
And she smiles through angst-ridden eyes,
But I won’t cry with her…

I was taught not to cry.
So. I don’t.

The man who is no longer.
Scratching his head and reading
wouldn’t want me to.