For Dillon: On the occasion of what would’ve been his 44th Birthday
by Jack A. Urquhart, Copyright 2023
Occasionally, two or three times a year,
I tune my heart to the memory of your face
to the sound of your voice, to the sly,
crooked angle of your grudging smile
And sometimes you come in loud and clear
your half-assed, fake anger broadcasting
some oldie but goodie, egregiously insulting,
clear as a fifty-thousand-watt station
on a cloudless day:
“You’re nothin’ but a big old whore!”
I hear you bray again, loud enough
for the whole neighborhood to appreciate
in splendiferous ROFLOL style.
But other times, there is only the painful static,
of your complete and utter silence.
They say the power of a loved one’s absence
fades with time until, like a canyon echo
the reminders coming ’round again,
diminish with each reverberation
But I think it’s only that we’ve become
harder of hearing, our attentiveness
damaged by the decibels of everyday life.
Until we become deaf and numb
And finally, in tune with absence,
just another voice in the ether–
competing for attention.
Waiting to be remembered–
As I remember you.