What It Takes to Move Forward

in fall, the year you grew to be six feet i tempered my fear into haste, a worry that dogged our mother. she, the baby of three, asked how so many things could take flight at once. there are no easy answers, and even thirteen, i could not think of a

city lights graced interstates, the way you move your hands through your hair when you feel alone. remember the flowers you picked when we crossed over madison? you were so sure you found yourself that you branded it into an oak- the one you swore re

oh no! i thought you'd changed; take back all the things you said. i remember thinking this evidence you left was damning enough but you took all the words from my mouth and pulled them out. how could i not see you for what you are? but you turned al

you settled into uneasy sleep, a subtle hint that things were changing and every breath of labored rest brought new designs of old regrets. and how they aged you! how they took your strength away! (when they entered your body and pinned fear to weigh