Pauline

I wish my arms remembered the way it felt to hug you.

Instead, I’m left with a faint recollection of a dream (I must have had)

Of wrapping myself up in you the way only a child can.
With absolute honesty, and vulnerability.

People grow up and forget how to do that.

Like, somehow, telling someone you love them with just an embrace

Or genuinely holding on to someone else, like sour milk, leaves a bad taste.

But you.

You never lost that.

And if my memory serves me right, you were my blanket on a rainy day.

You were the smile in a room filled with tears,

And you were the medicine.

On your bottle it would say:

Recommended dosage: take 3x a day.

But now my mind, like my arms, can’t see past the tears of frustration that distort the view

Of the photo album I’ve kept of you.

You were my north star guiding me.

And when your light exploded into supernova and left, so did my sense of direction.

And now, to me, true North is whichever way I’m facing.

So these circles I’ve walked in have become accustomed to my pacing.

If I had to describe you, I’d say blurred lines and shadows

Of a time when bad things didn’t happen to us because those things were reserved

For the families whose names we didn’t know,

Who lived in towns we’d never heard of.

But pain is universal, and so is loss.

And sometimes I feel lost without you.

And sometimes I wonder, after over a decade, how many tears I could possibly have left for you.

But I must have kept some gallons on reserve.