and spending time with his writing felt like spending time with him, only not as scary.
So I clicked over to the poems section. The first one went:
My mother’s footsteps were so quiet I barely heard her leave.
Another: You must never let truth get in the way of beauty, or so e. e. cummings believed.
“This is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart,” he wrote of love and longing.
That often got him laid I’m sure, which was the poem’s sole intent.
But gravity differs from affection: Only one is constant.
And then the first poem, written on the same day as the first journal entry, two weeks after his father’s disappearance.
He carried me around my whole life—picked me up, took me here and there,
said Come with me. I’ll take you. We’ll have fun. We never did.
You don’t know a father’s weight until it’s lifted.
As I reread the poem, my phone buzzed. Davis. Hi.
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