For George
- 9 minutes ago
- 1 min read
George, who laughed too loud
for quiet rooms,
who carried a silver dollar,
its edges worn smooth,
who turned strangers
into old friends.
George, who belonged to Seattle,
its rain, its bookstores,
its Alki beach sunsets,
coffee in hand,
waves erasing
what he didn’t want to keep.
George, who brought women
to my mother
soft smiles,
hopeful eyes
each one fading
like the spaces
between his calls.
George, who asked,
“Are you happy?”
as if happiness were a coin
he could flip into my hand,
as if his question
might hold the answer
he couldn’t find.
George, who rested his hand
on my pregnant belly,
his gaze somewhere else,
as if imagining
a life that wasn’t mine,
a choice that wasn’t his.
George, who left no obituary,
no fanfare
just the shadow of his laugh,
waves carrying his name
back to the sea.
George, who I want to remember
as the brother I never had,
but whose absence is a wound
I’ve carried forever.
George,
who I still hear asking:
“Are you happy?”
I don’t know, George.
I don’t know.
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