I am starting to lose you

I am starting to lose you.

I can no longer guess at the things you would say,

Or how you would act in a mundane moment because

I did not take the time to appreciate them when you were here.

I’m forgetting your words and turns of phrase and idiosyncrasies that made you real and human,

So now every minute you creep closer in my memory to aligning with the corpse that lies in the

ground.

I am starting to lose you.

The sound of your laugh that once rang richly like a gong or bells or a telephone or anything that

pierces the eardrum

Now fades into a distant echo that slowly yet more quickly every day fails to pierce my memory,

Your sense of humor gets lost in new jokes as mine shifts and changes and suddenly

I don’t know if I would make you laugh anymore.

I think that maybe the day I first started losing you, my laugh changed.

I am starting to lose you.

Moments that were once bright and clear

Fade into black and white photographs.

Now sometimes it feels like I only remember you from pictures stored

In cracked leather photo albums

And the stories that others tell me go along with these still life images,

But still life goes on and their memories replace my own as they disintegrate with age,

And now when I see a picture of you I don’t know what the truth is, only the bedtime story

I made up for myself to keep the tears at bay when at night in the darkness

I could not picture your face.

I am starting to lose you.

Because I am growing up without you.

The milestones I achieve now lack your presence,

But once you picked me up from the bus stop on the lawn mower.

I disembarked from the yellow behemoth to find that you had ridden the grumbling green beast

Up our street, and I climbed aboard with your arms for a seatbelt.

We rode back together, more slowly than I could have walked.

And a hundred times we stood in the center of the open floor plan,

Your hand outstretched to me, whispering

trust me

as Etta James belted in the kitchen.

My feet sprinted from tile to lacquered wood,

My callous-free hand meeting the coarse grip of yours

And then you spun me,

Hair and skirt whipping around in tandem

As my back spilled over your arm and one leg flew free, dipping.

Or a thousand times, when you would lie on the rug in front of the TV

With that ratty blanket the colors of vomit and mustard, that you loved,

That I would scurry over to steal from your elbows just to settle across your back,

Before layering myself on top of you along with it,

Watching your face as you watched TV,

Rubbing my hand along your cheek

To feel the pleasant sandpaper sensation of your salt and pepper stubble,

And you, only smiling.

But how young was I when these memories were reality?

Now I know you when I write “deceased” on the line for “father’s signature.”

I am starting to lose you.

But I have been losing you for years,

I just didn’t notice until now,

Because today was the first time I could not hear your voice in my head.