Page 29

When you bury me,

I’ll miss the smell
of my memories here.

Sweet spring,
with enough green
to go around
time and time again.

I’ll miss my walks,
where each scent
came and went
like the colors of leaves
learning to let go.

I’ll miss the clouds,
those endless shapes.
I’ll miss the rain’s
gentle taste,
and the wind
brushing against my skin,
as if it always knew me.

I’ll miss sunshine,
how it made me feel
like a child
who could play outside
forever.

I’ll miss the sound
of running water,
and the afternoons
trying to understand
how cool decides to flow.

I’ll miss the songs
of East Coast birds,
circling the secret creeks
that listened
when I’d speak,
and stayed
when I had nowhere else
to go.

I’ll miss
the years I believed
myself alone,
and those
turning that place
into somewhere
more inviting.

I’ll miss
carrying what was
while reaching
for what’s to come,

scraping my knees
over words,
thinking
I’d wandered
from the plan.

I’ll miss wonder.
Awe.
And the agonizing questions
all the same.

I’ll miss seeking
when,
and why,
and how
I’d look up
at the sky.

I’ll miss
those long hours
alone,
where one sentence ended,
and another
held its hand.

I’ll miss the few words
that found themselves.

Also,
the blank pages,
where nothing was written,
and everything happened.

The slow
Pennsylvania sidewalks,
their dirt,
and the way the earth
slowly taught my feet
to recognize themselves
in everything.

And you,

dear reader.

The way you meet my words
with no reply.

There’s something
I’ll miss
about that.

So keep them.

Keep the walks,
the birds,
the rain,
the questions.

One day,
they will become
the fragrance
of memory.

There you go.

Here I am.

Turning.

Twenty-nine.

The blank page

where nothing is said,

and everything

happens.