your photos told stories
of the adventures you've
had - oh the places you
went!
your poems, more like
rants, had your voice
boom inside my mind,
echoing.
soon after you deleted your account,
I swore I would write to you...
but I never did, not as often as
I would have liked to, anyway.
next time I go out,
I'll take pictures
of flowers and 'scapes,
just for you, my friend.
next time I write a
poem, I will remember
how your words always
were full of volume.
every summer,
for as long as I can remember,
father would bring mother fresh-picked
flowers - red tulips were her favorite -
to signify him being home from the war.
mother cooked her famous mashed potatoes
and barbeque chicken, with side salad,
letting them tulips freshen up the room;
father would pick up his guitar and tell
stories through song about his adventures.
what felt like only minutes later, father
would gather his bags after several weeks,
walk on over to me and mother, kissing me
on my cheek softly; take care of her, son -
he would say, with a bittersweet smile.
every summer
was the same.
every summer
except the last.
from