Silhouettes Don'T Speak

The way the light hits the ground leads to the sudden appearance of shadows upon your frame, and your wisps of white hair are made whiter by the sunlight. I stare at your silhouette, realizing that the more years go by, the more of a shadow you are becoming to me. We are distanced by generations, browbeaten by past mistakes and family secrets. You've learned to keep your words safe in the womb of your mouth, occasionally making use of the rolling "r"s of your native tongue. But, we are also connected by the language of poetry and ink stains that courses deep through our veins, by the Navajo stories I still see etched in the corner of your eyes, by the withered hands that have forgotten how to use a pen. And yet, it is not enough to have you sitting so silently. And yes, I crave more. So I walk towards you now, and reach for your hand. Silhouettes don't speak, and I don't intend them to, but they are always there to listen.