Semi-Random Reflections

Read time: 1 Min.

I open the door to Granddad’s darkened room.
The clock clicks counterclockwise.
It’s your name he incants.

The skid marks from your getaway car
retreat from the tarmac;
the crack I filled in the floor tile
re-cracks where you once dropped a toolbox.

I open my mouth;
it’s your voice that greets him.

The shaking walls become still
as your echoing screams take themselves back;
that picture of Granddad’s garden I painted
erased by that turtle sketch you drew.

I stand at the bedside;
it’s your face that looks down.

I watch unseen and silent
while you tell your father
about the catfish you caught.
It was the length of your arm.
The force as you ripped it out of the water
flung you backwards into me
and I fell out the boat.

You’re home now,
the child Granddad raised before me.
And me? I’m
you.