By Ava Faustina PZ ’27
I think of you most
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,