cbowman13

Mark,

Grammie flew out to find you

finally withered away in the Rockies.

You had the lead

a large one, several years

but demons are quick on motorcycles

and they love to watch you lose.

I will not speak further on the negative,

never something you cared to dwell on.

Your laugh could blow away any storm,

fight in any boxing ring,

and peacefully lull me off to sleep.

My mother read my least favorite poem

as we buried you in the ground.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood”,

as if anyone knew

what Frost really meant.

I knew you would have wanted a song,

I’d play you one of those tunes we would hear

in Papa’s garage, pale pink radio

blaring out your childhood and enhancing mine

with rich notes of smooth jazz

and energetic jam sessions of Metallica.

But I could not play the electric guitar

and was too embarrassed to bring out my sax.

I cannot find your doodles anymore.

My fingers would trace the colored pencils’ tracks, smudges,

wondering why you would never call,

always wrote.

Sometimes I can still feel

the pads of your thumb and pointer finger

squeeze their prints onto my nose, twisting,

snorting a giggle out as you did

and bringing a crinkled smile to my face.

I never let anyone borrow the t-shirt

you gave me on your last Christmas.

My heart could not take it

if I lost that, too.

No more footsteps from down the hall

trudging towards my half-shut wood door

to bid me sweet dreams.

I miss you.

Love, Bear