Thomas Graham Dear ma, (you don’t have to reply

Dear ma, ( you don’t have to reply )

by Thomas Graham

I know the house will be cold. I know you told me a thousand times how to work the thermostat. Set program. Select temp. Hold or something like that. Regardless, I delight in the cold now. It retells me of all the times you scolded me to make my bed. I never liked how icy the sheets got whenever my bed was made but, I always apologized anyway.

Arriving at our outdated ranch house, I drift through the garage. I avoid eye contact with our fishing gear, Neglected by a retrograde movement of time, reflecting the broken promise I made to always be your baby moose. I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would be so hard to keep. Memories begin to rise like trout as I slip inside, I refuse to catch any because we always fished together. You taught me how to fish.

I step over the illiterate welcome mat I made for your 48th birthday, nine years ago. You placed it without thought below the front door, right before the kitchen.

It’s now seasoned with seasons a touch of mud, a hint of ocher leaves, and a snowflake or two to taste. You taught me how to cook.

I pass by your bedroom. Your bed is made and has been since you started using the hospital’s. I want to jump in it and snuggle with your shadow, but I have to do something first. With eyes overcast, I stagger into my bedroom and while I finish making my bed I cry out, “Hey Ma, have you forgiven me yet?”

Thomas is a junior studying Entrepreneurship with a minor in English and a Creative Writing certificate. He enjoys activities such as fly fishing, playing music, writing, climbing, and attending church at His House Christian Fellowship. He likes writing poems, short stories, and songs.