i really hated it when you kissed
my cheeks. your beard was so scratchy.
in fact, i always dreaded that part. i think you
would laugh if we talked about it now.

your chair outside, to watch the mountain
was always there. and every morning you'd sit there.
you'd shuffle down the hall, wearing your beret.
you'd give me cantaloupe even after i told you i
didnt want any. im not entirely sure whether you could hear me and
gave me some anyway, or really just couldn't hear me.

i can't remember your voice. it kills me.
i remember you'd take forever at scrabble. i really miss that
you'd always eat french vanilla ice cream and sit at the head of the table. even after, it
took awhile for anyone to sit there.

when i go back, it looks different. the walls are white
now, clean. not smoke covered gray. when i painted it, i wondered what
you would think. that ugly linoleum in the kitchen
is now replaced with tile. it looks good.
even still, i only see the rug and the red chairs in the living room.
it could never be anything else.

sometimes i go in your room. i find letters you wrote.
i try to picture you writing it. i can. i can't imagine you as ever
being young without your beard and glasses. you seemed so wise, how could that ever have been
different. im told i have your eyes. your spirit. and your drive. i think my dad has
it too. its nice. thanks, for passing that along.

i wish i'd known you longer. you never heard me
play cello. i think you would have liked it.
      i told my dad the other day " i miss the old guy "
i like to think you laughed at that.

so i just wanted to tell you, i think about you. i hear you in the wind.
i know its you. i think you'd be proud of me, the little sprite girl.

and, Baba, i wish i'd let you kiss my cheeks.