yesterdays

staring at the wall, pictures i didn't take. history class discussion, wars i never took part in. outside, snow i did not ask for.

i asked for you.

a telling pause, heavy air that was stale on my tongue.

you called the house today. the caller id gave you away and i considered letting the phone ring three, four times until the answering machine cut in. [grandma tells me we should empty our inbox. i forget and it remains full.] instead:

hello.
hey! how are you?
good.
that's good; how's school?
it's alright.
that's great to hear. is sam there?
yeah.

but is it good? is it great?

i am two years old, at the old trailer house. mom is in the kitchen and dad is outside moving windows. i am sheltered and happy and watching a cartoon show about gargoyles. that was before. you came after.

you were the weekdays. you were singing to oldies in a red pick-up truck down the dusty road to grannie's, counting the turns. you were playing nintendo 64 after supper, mario kart a classic and our favourite. you were learning to filet fish at barrier, guts sticking to my hands. you were my childhood, back when talking to you was easier than talking to my own mother and when i loved you the most.

i don't think i'm allowed to miss you and so i don't, but four years later the air is still stale on my tongue. i'll tell you a secret: i don't think you ever cared.