Almost every night, I dream of you.

Sometimes, you’re larger than you were

in life,

like a hundred pounds more,

yet finally light.  

I’m absorbing new mornings,

but grief is a slow teach

of grace.

Forgiving myself for unused words

and everything I didn’t know

is a dying to perfection.

I’m sorry I never told you,

“I love you”.

Can I dream

to keep time from stealing

my memory of you?

How sharply

I still remember your voice,

your volume.

How deeply

I’m afraid to forget.

Can I dream

of another last day with you?

What all would we do?

What all would we say?

Would it all be enough

to comfort the reality of loss?

my dad, Derrick Horston: Sept. 3, 1966 – Nov. 30, 2019


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