Writers 
The Shape of Your Absence π·
Before now,
I'd always thought it was fair,
the distance you kept between us.
I'd save a seat for you
in my imagination,
and try to remember
what your voice sounded like,
and whether I still looked
like you.
Then Mama told me,
Some people leave footprints.
Others leave questions.
I grew up learning
the difference.
I learned to recognize you
in the little things people said,
in the stories that ended
whenever I walked into the room,
and in the silence that followed
whenever someone mentioned your name.
Sometimes, I'd stand in front of the mirror,
studying my face like a stranger,
searching for a familiar feature,
a little piece of you
that time couldn't take away.
I wondered if we had the same smile,
if my laughter sounded like yours,
if you ever looked at someone
and saw me staring back at you.
There were days I convinced myself
that your absence didn't matter,
that a person could grow just fine
without knowing the roots
from which they came.
But some nights,
I wished I had more than questions.
A photograph with a story behind it,
a memory I could call my own,
or even a goodbye
that would have made your leaving real.
Now I understand what Mama meant.
Some people leave footprints
for you to follow.
Others leave questions
you spend a lifetime answering.
And you,
you left me wondering
how someone I've spent so long missing
could still feel like a stranger.
