somewhere in time
it's 2014. I'm 12 again
and I'm meeting you for the second time.
You'll give me a copy of my favourite book
and I'll have a hot chocolate
(with whipped cream and marshmallows. some things never change, hey?)
I will barely speak.
my grandmother will know, as will you
that I am so, so very nervous.

I'll stop talking to you then, for a while.
I won't contact you for at least 3 years.
1/5 of my life (at the time).
and then, I will. and I will discover
that your favourite sweet is Turkish delight,
that you love sea shanties,
and your girlfriend is from our home
(not this one. a warmer home in a colder climate. flashes of a childhood now-lost)
I will discover
that maybe, I want you in my life.
that maybe, 'dad' suits you once more.

we will talk for a while, and learn more.
we'll discuss your travels,
my dreams, our hopes for the future.
a pandemic will happen. you will be in and out of hospital. and I will assume that you are fine.
for a while you are.
we'll keep talking when we can.
I am no longer very nervous at all.

we'll meet up again,
and I'll give you a box of Turkish delight,
and a candle which smells of the sea.
I'll get that candle back
in a few short months
when you die.
it will be lightly used.

I will talk to your sister,
and we will form a bond.
she will help me plan the funeral
and then, for a while, we won't mention you.

I will wonder
always
what could have been.
I couldn't contact your girlfriend.
by now, I think she must know.
after all, it's been almost 4 years.

you sit on my windowsill, now.
and I light you candles, sometimes.
I still have your candle.
I suppose it's mine, now.
I can't light it.
sometimes, I still can't think about you
and the weight of your loss
feels unbearable.

I hope you understand
when I'm silent on your birthday.
maybe this year, at the very least,
I'll light your candle.