By Ava Faustina PZ ’27

I think of you most

on weekends,

when the house is quiet

and I can still smell the olive oil,

grease from my hands to my sheets.

I asked for the type of guidance

I could see

between the lines,

because the thought of your voice

made me tremble.

You were never good at reading,

maybe that’s why 

God is inaccurate.

I can feel the limbs

of my childhood breaking off

like the branch of the fig tree

I used to love.

Two days until I move out,

two years since you’ve been gone,

I’ve been going through something,

and I’ll keep going,

only you know how long.

You were short 50 years a lifeline,

so I’ll meet you in the next lifetime, 

maybe when the summer sidewalk, 

finally cools.