When I was twelve, I had hoped he would ask me to sing with him.
I knew he could hear me belting 90s R&B as I paced the kitchen.
I pretended to be embarrassed, but I wanted him to ask;
it would have been proof that I was the blood of his blood;
that I was good enough.
I don’t think about him anymore. Not like I used to.
His death is much like my own now: abstract and looming.
I keep part of him on the mantle, except during Christmas
when I hide him behind singing snowmen
with the dead batteries inside.
I still sing in the kitchen
but only when I don't think anyone is listening.
I'm still waiting for him to ask me.
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