From Your Daughters

You Became the Thunder

The night you died there was a thunderstorm. I lay in bed and
trembled at the release of your laugh, electric against the sky;
energy of a man who jumped the last six stairs, delighted in a fine
climbing tree, all skinny limbs, eyes earnest and teasing as a child’s.

Remember the night I writhed in pain when I was thirteen, muscles on fire
with a sudden growth spurt? You made a bed on the floor next to mine,
held my hand in the dark until I fell asleep. Now the ache of your
absence burns deep in my bones without relief, a chronic condition.

On quieter days there are green lawns and the lie I told that got me
out of school so I could be with you. You made me a nest of blankets
under your desk; a cuckoo called in the woods as I dreamed and you
worked. Sometimes I think you knew what you were doing that day,

opening a door for us to be together outside of time. Now you’ve become
the thunder; I see you in dreams where you hold me as I cry and clutch at
thin air as you slip through my arms, leaving a kiss on my forehead.
I can’t help feeling as though I misplaced you, like a set of keys I usually

keep in my coat pocket. I catch glimpses of you in crowded streets
and stare until strangers glance away, uncomfortable. You inhabit my
body in moments when I see my toes (uncannily like yours) pale against
the tile, or at parties when my voice cracks under the strain of conversation.

Perhaps a part of me will always be searching for you. I’m making peace
with the space you left; it’s evidence you were there to fill it, once. I look
for you in my dreams when I sleep, in the faces of strangers, and in the
mirror. I imagine I’m walking towards you, instead of leaving you behind.

Sophie Caldecott