Fill the Silence

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xxv

on June 27, 2018

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Let the air

sweep

the last thoughts

of you

off my porch

and

out of my mind.

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wdm. 1945-2020.

today, i did what he would’ve wanted. i carried on. i said my hellos, shook hands with both new bodies and the lingering sadness inside me, i went about my day. because he was never about dramatics. he always said he never wanted - never needed - anything. he had all he wanted and more. so much more, i got a house and garage full of all he wanted. to him, they were tools. important, useful. to me, they are memories of a man who never got to see those tools full potential. his kid’s full potential. i try not to cry about it often. because the tears aren’t something he would’ve wanted. and he would’ve told me that, too. my dad was a vintage Swiss Army Knife. old fashioned, got red in the face easy, and had all kinds of quirks to him. i miss his laugh. i miss his harmonica playing “you are my sunshine” nine tim...

five things i want him to know

1. Maybe I'll never be able to meet your skin, but a photograph seems to work just as well. 2. I scratch and rub the old away, and your sweet nothings cover me in a sheen of new so shimmery I dare to compare it to starlight. 3. You remind me of a sandy beach, blue ocean, and whipping winds that could knock me off my feet if it tried hard enough. Hey, are you even trying? 4. I've come to realize, maybe a bit late, that you're whirlwind uncontrollable by any human hand. I hope there's some Jesus workin' somewhere in there. 5. Every cliche I've ever complained about makes total sense now. I'd never tell you this.

I am

I am a broken vase, mended together time and time again by hands that are calloused from years of gently crafting pottery from next to nothing. I am a wave, right before it's crest and crash, looking for my peak of life. I have seen the dark and cold waters; this is my final attempt at an escape for something better. I am an old ship, worn from years upon the seas. I've seen great adventure, great loss. The water, choppy and then calm, has left it's scars on the wood, a silent story of my life. I am a library of an ancient city, I hold many secrets and pages of smudged ink from old poets and historians. It would take years to open every book I store; my thoughts. I am nothing more than a speck of well-put together molecules and stardust. I work as a slow time-bomb, nearing my end which will come in a small, useless explosion that will send me back to the stars from where I emerged.

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xxv

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