"Charlie, your father would
like to speak to you."
Her voice was dull—like the
gray matter buzzing through
our minds, falling in between
the black and white, the right
or wrong—as she
lowered the car's window,
and shot a glance at me.
"Do you want to talk to him?"
No, I don't want to
talk to a deadbeat man
but it was too late since
her hand had gripped mine
and just a few seconds
later, we were eye to eye.
"Charlie?"
His voice was bitter, like
a breeze, a slap of the wind on
your face, the clawing of the
chalkboard, the screaming
following the crash of
two cars; it only stung for a
little while before there
was a jolt of pain that rattled
every inch of my skin.
All of those tiny memories,
the little things that bring
me back to him,
like a simple hello...
make every other horrid memory
tumble behind a million hellos and
the million hours and seconds he
never showed up on the doorstep
or to a baseball game, or to
speech therapy,
or to a birthday.
But it's okay, after all I'm
only a leftover letter
on a dirty chalkboard
left in the dust.
But hey, so is he.
