The memories of your hands Cradling a fret board And coaxing sweet lullabies From strings streatched and worn Haunt me, laugh at me, Stare at me from the depths Of my battered guitars. The thoughts of your laughter At the antics of our play Drags my heart further down Towards the soles of my sneakers. The very thought of you So very far from all of us Is set to drive me further Into the depths of the mind That you helped to train. But worse than these memories, Far worse in my thoughts, Are the days when I don't. I don't remember your voice, Your music, your laughter, your play. Those are the days that kill. The days when I can play guitar And not remember your hands, Calloused from strings and work, Showing me the chords I play. Those are the days that kill. The days when I don't remember Dog piles, volley ball or wrestling In someone's front yard With all of us little ones Trying to mimic your skills. Those are the days that kill. The days when I don't see A squirming puppy with a red bow Tied to rest on his head And your smiling face calling "Merry Christmas, Shorty". Those are the days that kill. And slowly, very, very, slowly Those days are becoming more. I am slowly losing these The details that make you, you. Losing them to the sands of time.
