To Your Little House and Time

Every day,
I’ll act like it’s the end.
As if it’s the last time I’ll speak to you.
I’ll write down each thing you say.
I’ll keep every circus ticket in a little book.
I’ll decorate it with your four-petal flowers and bind it with lemon linen strips.
All because I don’t know when our final act begins.

You say it’s silly, how I treasure each of your mother’s trinkets, but you forget that a few years ago, you were the one telling me to hold on.
Family history is relative.
You can never hear the same rendition,
whether gifted from a wine aunt,
or coaxed from a long-lost father.
Heritage — it truly is a part of us, no matter the manner in which we hide.

The struggle we’ll face is humanity’s oldest adversary.
Time.
A fickle thing.
An ancient evil and yet still the reason your snapdragon petals bloom.
I’d ask you to stop changing, stop aging, stop becoming what I fear,
But there’s truly no point.
I know that.

So just hold your hands steady, stop stooping, remember to lock your door.
You go to sleep at eight, waking up at two or nine, never in between.
Portions shrink,
for both of us,
for different reasons.
I hold your ring in an off hand as I watch the door.
I’m just soaking in your little house as if you’ll leave me tonight.

You’ll never see me with youth of my own.
I’ll tell them about you,
like you did with me.
I’ll tell them about your yellow-painted kitchen.
You had those little glass suncatchers that cast rainbows around the room.
Before your shoulders gave out, you grew runner beans and tomatoes.
You knew everyone in town.

I’ll tell them,
I wish you could have met her.
She would have loved you.
Like you told me about your grandmother.
 

I may never say these things aloud, which I will surely regret, but hear this: I love you.
I wish I could have met you more.