THE FRAME OF HIS DAYS

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The wire rims~
thin as a whisper,  
holding the weight of every page he turned,  
every clockface he squinted at before dawn.  

Now they sit,  
empty orbits on my desk.  
I lift them,  
and the world bends~  
not as he saw it,  
but as I imagine he did:  

The morning newsprint smudging into prayer,  
the stubborn lawnmower that refused to start,  
my childhood face,  
always slightly out of focus,  
as if love itself were a thing  
that needed adjusting.  

I wear them like a ghost.  
The bridge rests light,  
almost apologetic,  
as if they knew  
they were never meant to be mine.  

Through Pop’s lenses,  
the light is softer,  
the edges kinder.  
The coffee stains on the counter  
look like continents he never visited.  
The crossword puzzle~  
half-finished,  
pen dropped mid-clue~  
becomes a map of all the words  
he didn’t have time to say.  

I take them off.  
The room sharpens  
into my own life again,  
but for a moment,  
I swear,  
the air smelled like his aftershave,  
and the light was gold,  
the way it is  
just before it fades.

12th gradefatherfather daughterfree verse

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