You were a magical soul.
Lightening rooms that had no windows.
Giving more than you had.
Even as they threw rocks at you, you built them a home.
Your eyes beamed with flames, yet you spoke with tranquility.
God’s right hand was your alias.
The pews recognize your absence.
Your laughter was shameless.
It echoed through empty halls.
Now through my empty heart.
I stare in the mirror and I see your long black hair,
And the dimples we shared.
This small town is just full of your shadow.
The bus stop we sat at when I was a child.
The store where you let us pick our favorites.
The church where we spent early mornings.
And the place where I heard the news.
Where I spent most nights cursing at the sky.
The place I bitterly call home.
When I see the clouds I hope to see a sign.
It hasn’t come yet.
I still kept the photos of the Reagans you had in your living room.
The reason why you became an American.
I didn’t care for the money.
I didn’t care for the ashes.
I cared for the item you held dear to your heart.
And evidently, I hold you near and dear to mine as well,