After he passed away, I wrote my father a letter. In all the years we spent estranged, I never once bothered to write him anything. There were things I wrote about him, but they were never meant to be dedicated to him. Every so often, I write him another letter. It feels like life after my father is much life during his time on this planet. There are times when it slips my memory that he’s gone, because he was always gone. It’s just it was never this permanent.
There are moments when I remind myself of the people I’ve lost. That they’re not longer a text message away. Sometimes, I want to just contact them. To complain to them. To celebrate with them. But the dread sets in, the realization that I can’t just text message my friend. I won’t get an early birthday phone call. I won’t get to meet my middle-school-bully-turned-high-school-friend’s son, because he never had the chance to grow up. Never had the chance to graduate.
To present to you the eighth poem, “Grief Calls us to the Things of This World” by Sherman Alexie. Please enjoy.
Chapin City Blues 