Jul 11, 2017
Dear PoDai
The way you spoke:
stern discipline masking loving warmth.
The way you smelled:
of Chinese herbs and medicinal oils.
The way your arms enveloped me;
the way my arms barely wrapped around you.
The soft breeze of your fan,
the quiet hum of your voice, lulling sleep.
I miss you, PoDai.
You’re in the summer breeze, still.
In the humid days, when the air stays stagnant,
In, oddly, the smell of concrete and cement,
In autumn leaves and fresh soil,
In the soft quiet, before dawn and just after dusk.
I miss you, PoDai.
I pray that you’re living it up, up there,
Wherever you are.
