The blinds are drawn,
my desk lamp dimmed
as I sit down to write at 7 a.m.
A small speaker sits on the window sill
playing a song I haven’t heard in years
as the sadness finds its way back in.
A subtle pressure builds in my cheeks;
a memory returning from the dead: of the
two of us on an ice and beer mission to Godwin’s.
I can’t think of you dead, so I push those thoughts away; but I don’t want to push away the glimmers of you that keep appearing to me, speaking from the great beyond.
“Hold on. Let this song finish,” you say.
But when I try to reply, all that forms
is a lump at the back of my throat;
an aching rawness seizing my voice.
And so I sit in silence, unable to speak
as the song fades and I watch you leave.
“I love you, old friend,” I finally say,
but you are already gone,
it is already too late.
My friend and cousin Gary
This photo is from a family vacation at Topsail a handful of years ago. Our kids, who are still young, were even younger then. Hence, the Finding Nemo sippy cup on Gary’s knee.