03-13-2008

I'm 10
It's mid March, still cold
Under a tent, my mom is barely keeping it together.

You used to sit at the kitchen table in the morning, drink your coffee with a blue work shirt unbuttoned, and a black cat in your lap.

Now I visit a black headstone and my mother brings you flowers. I have one less grandparent and like one less tooth my thoughts fall to you like a tongue to an opening between teeth, this one won't grow back.

My memories are a mosaic of NASCAR and four wheelers and tire swings, and what I wouldn't give to hear your voice again, raspy from cigarettes.

What I wouldn't give to watch my brother play outside at your house, what I wouldn't give to introduce you to my fiancé, to seat you at my wedding.

Theres a white bear on my bed
I got her at your funeral 10 years ago
And somehow having her close
Makes the gap in my teeth a bit smaller
And makes the memories smell like your house and sound like your voice over the phone, telling me you're proud of me.