Confessions II

by Greyce Kelly Camargo Silva

Again, I find my thoughts, The ones that troubled me, Surfacing in my mind, and bringing, Gently pushing, the memories I once fought to forget.

Yes, they were about you. But, no, not like before. There was no sorrow today There were no sad tears tonight. Sure, the light ache, Like a feather that fell, Touched my heart, and its presence was felt, But it wasn’t like before, I didn’t wish you were here. No, I wished you were well.

I remembered your smile, and I didn’t cry. I remembered your voice, the one I wonder if I will forget. I so desperately try to keep it Tucked and wrapped in my memory. Because forgetting your voice, that would break me. It used to guide me, reproach me, but most of all, It felt like home, and like safety, Things I often longed for under the dark sky.

I also thought of you, And your voice, a distant memory, accompanied By that mischievous smile, and those forbidden words. No, it wasn’t like before. I wasn’t sad or angry. Sure, I miss you, more than these words can show. I miss the way you imprinted your smile on me. But most of all, I miss the version of me That with you was me. I am now sure I am fated, Some might say cursed, To think of you. But it’s ok because I know you are all right. And somewhere in this vast world we both love, You are laughing and under the sun. I can see in my mind The picture of your shiny eyes, Eyes that show the warmth of earth.

I guess this is goodbye. Because we never got to say those words. I never got to give you that last hug, And now that my eyes well with the regret And weight of not hearing your congratulations, I say goodbye to you. I say I will miss you. I promise that I will do my very best To keep the tears away, but I promise I will fail. The tears will fall, and I will swallow them. Under the blankets that drown my cries, But I will smile, and write Because you loved it, you loved both of them And I loved both of you.

6

by Patricia Canaday

I am moving down two flights into a studio apartment, leaving behind the nine picturesque windows and the Masonic symbol still affixed to the white tin ceiling of #18. #6 boasts a quirky vintage light fixture and exposed pipes. I climb through a kitchen window to enter the attached diminutive art studio. Bohemian, and the only flat without a mailbox. I add “purchase mailbox” to Monday’s “to do” list. There’s an invisible neighbor next door in a house with a green metal roof. I never see him but the “free” pile at the end of the drive is magically updated each day with his discards. I wander over to inspect. Wedged between a lobster pot and a flat basketball is a shiny, metal mailbox. Inside is a single number 6 of aged bronze, still unwrapped. Check.

Photograph By: Patricia Canaday Photograph Title: “6”