While watching the ACM awards last weekend,
Miranda Lambert sang “Over You,”
which hit my heart like a wall of bricks.
The song was written by her husband Blake Shelton
about the death of his brother.
Since then, I have been thinking of my dad a lot,
then I remembered the poem I wrote last summer about my last conversation with him.
I wanted to share it again today.
Sitting cross-legged,
branch scratches and purple bruises adorn my skinny legs,
marking the time of summer.
Moths cling to the window screens,
lured by the dim light of my floral lamp.
i pick up the humidity drenched sheets off of the floor
from last night’s restless sleep,
and lightly pull each end to the corners of my bottom bunk bed.
My dad steps into the room,
wearing nothing but shorts.
i think this is because i have stolen too many of his t-shirts
to wear as my nightgowns.
He brushes a drop of sweat from his brow
and hands me the camera manual,
asking specific questions,
ones i cannot remember 9 years later.
And then he is gone,
leaving only fragments of his smell;
ones i cannot remember 9 years later.
not even from a stolen t-shirt.
______
Our last conversation together was about a camera.
