I Miss You. I Miss You. I Miss You.

It’s three thirteen on a Sunday morning.

You have been gone for 1 year, 7 months, and 10 days.

 

I’ve counted.

 

Sundays are always the cruelest.

They’re laced with the dread of Monday and

Missing you.

 

We used to talk about the future on Sunday

Afternoons, a cigarette in your shaky left hand.

Sarcasm billowed from your mouth as easily as the

Smoke did.

 

Your words used to crackle, like a fire that would surely never

Extinguish. I remember the way they’d sometimes burn.

Blisters would rise on my skin. But, your mouth, like a faucet,

 

You’d always run cool, soothing words over them

To take the sting away.

 

You were so alive. It’s hard to imagine someone

Who seemed to have swallowed the sun, all of its blinding,

burning energy, cold and dead. It’s hard to imagine you not alive.

 

Mama keeps a voice-mail you

Had left for me for my birthday. I wish I could remember

How old I was turning that year; I guess that’s not important.

“Happy birthday,” you had said. And you would say it

Again, again, again, again - so long as I pressed replay.

 

And in that way, your voice is always hers for

Safekeeping.

 

Sometimes when the idea of your lifelessness is too

Overwhelming, I make plans of how I will preserve you.

 

I have to map out everything, and that you definitely know - knew.

I could forget school. Forget Pascal’s Triangle and the

Bohr Model of an atom and all of the different

Interpretations of Shakespeare’s sonnets and the difference

Between Congress and Parliament.

This is going to sound silly, I know. I can hear you laughing now.

 

(You had the kind of laughter that was funnier than the joke.

People sometimes say the same thing about my own.

I wonder if maybe I inherited something from you other than

A string of pearls.)

 

But I could drop everything and become a crayon maker.

 

The faded hunter green of your favorite jacket and the deep blue

Color of the abstract painting that hung above your dusty old couch

Could be condensed into a single cylinder of wax.

 

Four-year-olds could color Scooby-Doo’s coat

With the muddied amber of your eyes.

 

You could have eternal life on the stick figure drawings

Of juice box stained coloring book pages

 

And, maybe, in these words I write for you.

Author's Note

I wrote this as a kind of letter to my uncle. I miss him so much. I can't believe it's been almost two years since he's been gone. Christ.

Reviews

[Sibt-e-Hussain]

so beautifully depicted; I'm already fan, Loved it.

We used to talk a lot about the future on Sunday
Afternoons, a cigarette in your shaky left hand.
Sarcasm billowed from your mouth as easily as the
Smoke did.

[devon]

Thank you so much.

[Emmy J.M. Powell]

I loved reading this so much. The lines "Four-year-olds could color Scooby-Doo's furry coat with the muddy amber of your eyes" just made me sit back and think, it really made the meaning stick out. Love your style.

[devon]

Thank you so much. I'm glad I could give some perspective and make you think!