the dead air lightens
with familiar voice,
eyes glaze, I am
sitting on the cracked countertop
chai in hand,
– their intonation, so well-known,
takes me straight into that warm Sunday night, believing after Bible study.
as they speak, i see
the way she tosses her hair when she laughs
his crooked, Han Solo smile
Mom’s ticking steps through the halls
her upper lip curled under in her wide smile, the way it always does
when she’s really laughing – the way that I am now,
as they know just what to say.
Mid-joke, mid-laugh, the line cuts.
I am holding an empty shell of metal and plastic to my face
as the memories fade
and I am alone again in this icy silence, so much
colder after a breath of warm air.