"Charlie, your father would

like to speak to you."

Her voice was dull—like the

gray matter buzzing through

our minds, falling in between

the black and white, the right

or wrong—as she

lowered the car's window,

and shot a glance at me.

"Do you want to talk to him?"

No, I don't want to

talk to a deadbeat man

but it was too late since

her hand had gripped mine

and just a few seconds

later, we were eye to eye.

"Charlie?"

His voice was bitter, like

a breeze, a slap of the wind on

your face, the clawing of the

chalkboard, the screaming

following the crash of

two cars; it only stung for a

little while before there

was a jolt of pain that rattled

every inch of my skin.

All of those tiny memories,

the little things that bring

me back to him,

like a simple hello...

make every other horrid memory

tumble behind a million hellos and

the million hours and seconds he

never showed up on the doorstep

or to a baseball game, or to

speech therapy,

or to a birthday.

But it's okay, after all I'm

only a leftover letter

on a dirty chalkboard

left in the dust.

But hey, so is he.