Culture Clutch

​Times like this,

I remember your silence.

I remember your whistling.

Most of all, I remember your hands.

They trembled.

But you could do anything with them.

If a pipe had to be cut,

Or a screw had to be loosened,

You were the one.

You could do anything.

I know it bothered you sometimes, that

I was constantly asking you to fix my toys.

But getting close to you was so difficult.

And that was when I felt closest to you.

When we were fixing my broken toys.

You were magic, and your hands could do anything.

I wish I had told you how much I respected you.

I wish I had told you how much I looked up to you.

How you are still the only person I ever met, who could do anything.

Absolutely anything, with your own two hands.

And now, you’re dead.

Dead, and there’s no second chance to tell you.

I wish you’d told me more of who you were.

So I wouldn’t have so much left to figure out.

I wish I could reach out to you and tell you to look at me now.

See what I’ve done here?

See everything I’m learning how to do?

I can be just like you.

There’s no response.

But it’s fine.

You’re dead.

And I am here.

And now, I look at my own hands,

And I stare so hard,

Looking for your own fingerprints in mine.

I can think of only one time that you told me you loved me.

It was your last Halloween on Earth.

Your eyes, so deep, and sad.

Why did you leave this secret with me?

All that mystery lost.

Culture you would have never shared with me.

I love it so much.

You could have shown me.

I would have held it high

So everybody could see

Who you are.

Now it’s mine.

I hold it high.

Thank you.

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