I still think about you sometimes.
What you’d say to me now,
what music you’d listen to on the radio.
Who you would have voted for last year,
McCain or Obama?
I think Obama.

I know I barely knew you,
and was far too young to
have any memories with you –
but I still imagine these things,
and others.

I imagine what I’d be like
if you hadn’t died.

I wonder sometimes
if I’d be the same person I am now –
the stubborn liberal,
outspoken even when I know

I’m losing the argument.

I wonder what memories I’d have,
ones that now are filled
with your absence.

My only memory of us
together is in my baby book –
a snapshot of you, in
our house on Wooddrift,
holding my two-week old body and
smiling down at me.

I still think of you that way –
smiling down at me.