I remember wishing you would leave, 

if only for a little while— 

wishing for a lag in the yelling, 

the slamming of cabinets
and 
doors, 

the distinctive sound of a beer can being opened. 

Crack. Fizz. Silence.


 I remember the deafening silence

as I sat staring at your empty seat, 

wondering when you would return.


I remember knowing change was imminent 

when, astounded by the nurse’s bedside manner, 

she told me you were not alright and 

speeding was not encouraged but it was advised.


 I remember wishing you could come back,
 
if only for a little while.

For years I’d wished for things to change,
 
and for years I’ve wished I would have understood

that wishing can make you bitter,
 
silent— 

lost in remembering