soft like the wind

Hi, Mom. I hope you’re somewhere beautiful— the way Dad always says you are. I’m older now. Not a baby anymore. I wish I could remember your voice, but I hear it in his. He still talks about you— every night, when he thinks I’m asleep. He steps outside, looks up at the sky, and whispers. Sometimes I hear him cry, soft like the wind. Sometimes I smile, 'cause I know you're listening. He’s doing his best, Mom. You’d be proud of him. He burns toast, forgets picture day, can’t braid hair to save his life— but he never misses a hug. Not once. He tells me stories about you, and every one feels like a dream. He says I have your eyes. I see you in his. He still sets a place for you at the table on your birthday. He still wears that ring— and he still talks to your photo like you're just away for a while. He laughs sometimes, too. When I dance like you used to. When I say something smart and stubborn. He says, "That's your mama." And I see his heart break and heal in the same breath. Sometimes I talk to you, too. When it’s quiet. When I miss you. When I want to thank you for giving me the best dad in the world. He’s not perfect. But he’s everything. I think he still carries you in every step. And I carry you both in mine. Love you always, Mom. Soft like the wind. Forever like the stars.