Where the past meets the present
to sit and watch the future disintegrate
Story after story about your childhood,
teen life and young adulthood
get spread across holidays throughout the year.
If someone gets drunk enough,
they’ll tell me about when you used to
get high before class or drunk before church.
When mom is feelings particularly open
she’ll share a story with me, like the one
about her flipping hot grits on your arm.
At night I lay awake, thinking you’ll come see me,
tell me how proud you are, apologize for being gone
and give me a million hugs and kisses.
I look out the window, the night has gone
and there was not a peep from you. I imagine
what you’d say to me if you ever got the chance to speak.
But, I can’t imagine those words because I don’t
know your voice. And those hugs and kisses are
unfamiliar because I’m a stranger to your touch.