Day 984

You sit on a rock
with your eyes closed,
trying to remember your father.
Every day his voice
grows fainter; every day
you’re afraid you’re forgetting
more about him. The touch
of his hand, the sound
of his footstep. What it was like
to lie in your bed
as he read you stories, poems,
before turning out the light.
Where is he going, that’s
more and more distant
from where you are?
And who were the characters
in those stories, the animals
whose sounds he imitated,
the old people whose words
he spoke in a voice
that sounded like cracked
cellophane? Your books
gone, your house gone.
Your father gone
since almost the start
of the genocide. You want
to tell him how you miss him.
You want to let him know
you write your own stories now.
You see him, a tiny point
far, far away. How
tall was he? What color exactly
were his eyes? What
was the smell of his jacket?