My father was killed when I was a child. It took me years to write about it.
I lost you that day in the forest. You reach for the ground or for my hand, and the sun, or the rain, is in my eyes. When I look up, my hand catches air. Your eyes are brown or grey or green. Your voice I confuse with the softness of leaves. Silence is not silence because the birds have stopped singing and the words you left me with took forty-two years to say. Let me fix you where I can see you, for a second or two, holding my hand, and the stick you are throwing for the dog that is running, for the dog that has gone and will never come back.
I lost you that day, or the day after that. What did I know? I laughed, I think.
Words: Guinevere Glasfurd