I lost his voice the week of his death
Instantly, I tried to grasp it and hold it close
But the harder I tried to hear it, the further away it seemed
I was told that it was normal, that my mind will trick me
I had talked to him just a week… maybe two before
The details begin to slip away
These words are already soaked
This original paper is dotted with transparency
What does it mean to lose the details?
The details of the moments that unraveled it all
Some reminders lie dormant in journals
But its not brilliant manic writing
Scrawls and sketches ooze amateur insanity
When I crack one open I see those fearful faces looking at mine
I must remind myself those words do not reflect who I am
I am relieved to close it, but also guiltily miss it
In those times my brain burned, I made errors that I have no memory of
But it felt fucking amazing while it lasted
What came after was truly on the other end of the spectrum
Desperation relentlessly clawed at my mind
I thought of my dad as I tried to heal
My first memory
Walking down the hospital hall, reaching up to hold his hand
Excited to meet my little sister
He held me up to see the babies
The boys in blue, the girls in pink
A sweet memory laced with segregation
Sixteen years after we walked down that hall his athletic heart stopped forever
His curiosity was like that of a child’s
Raw and innocent, it was a rejuvenating quality
His death tore my carefully crafted roots from the ground
I kissed his lifeless body’s forehead while shock and sadness mingled inside me
That night I listened to the crashing waves while tears rolled down my face
Those hills of water had soothed me during my childhood
But they became so hard to hear
Winter 2010