Day 1,053

You are trying to remember
your father’s voice. Every day
he read to you, every night
before bed. Even
when you were old enough
to read yourself: the last sound
you heard before falling asleep
was his voice, accompanied at times
by the sounds of crickets or wind
or falling rain. He was killed
only a couple of months
Into the genocide. His voice
reading to you at night
in the crowded room
where you all slept in those months
was accompanied then
by the sounds of explosions,
sirens, buildings
collapsing. Screams.
Still, your father
would sit beside you
and read. You’re trying now
to remember the sound,
the cadences, the way
he would change his voice
to perform a new voice
in the story. You’re trying
now to imagine how he would read
the stories you’re reading now.
How you would lie in the quiet dark
pondering the final few words
of the chapter. Not needing
to count your losses.