I should’ve spoken, it was the time to do it, but in the moment, I couldn’t, didn’t feel I had the right to
Who am I to you anyway, we were not dear friends, we were not family, we were not many things
and yet, you in that recliner will be an image forever in my heart
I should’ve said something, but couldn’t just then, wrapped inside my spiraling thoughts of lesser than and not having the right
I should’ve spoken.
For I remember you, your stern worship of the clock—the fear I felt when I inevitably drove towards one of your events late
your kind words that one Christmas, when I gave an overly sentimental and odd gift to your daughter: she will always have your words, you’d said
the inexperienced paintings by me that you hung in your living room, praising them to no end
the dinners in those swivel chairs,
but most of all I’ll remember you every time I hit the road in my car, I’ll see you with your long ass atlases spread all over the dining table, mapping out the best route to get from point a to point b.
avoid traffic at all costs, avoid traffic. at. all. costs!
I should’ve spoken, but I didn’t that chilly Saturday.
