Sometimes, you forget

Sometimes, you forget he’s dead.

You’ll be away for a long trip out of town, and come home expecting him to be there. He’s not. He’s gone.

You’ll want to come home and tell him about your travel tales, how much of a great adventure everything was.

You’ll tell him about how you got lost and how you figured everything out.

You’ll find that his room is now empty.

There’s no one there to listen to your hundred little stories of trains and airports and markets and temples and food and how origami seemed so much more fun when you’re there.

Or how much your feet ached to the bone from all the walking, then you’ll laugh about it together.

You’ll want to talk about the weather, how much colder autumn turned out to be, how autumn is like winter to someone who thrives on sweltering heat here.

You just forgot. He’s not here. He’s gone.

Remembering someone from way up the Tokyo Skytree

 

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