Nightmare

Every day I check box #4109

hoping to see another small, yellowed envelope

its size deceiving its content.

I wait for weeks;

they turn into months.

I don’t know where you are,

or who is caring for you.

Anxious about your safety.

All I know is you are not here.

Your letters illustrate stories

of your childhood,

secret dreams and wishes.

They are filled with trust.

The simple bond

between pen and paper

creates our complex

relationship for years.

But the lack of life in the hand

that writes the lines

destroys our growth.

I will forever cherish

the last, little letter

where you wrote of a promise

you can no longer keep.

That wish you had

to be with me eternally

when you came home.

Now I stand here in front

of all your family and friends

speaking about the person you were,

and there is one thing

I want you to know.

That I check box #4109 everyday still

hoping to wake up from this

bad dream.