After they buried you, I found myself
in my bedroom thumbing through
a shoebox of cards – looking for you in the baptisms,
birthdays, first communions, confirmations.
I found you between Christmas and Valentine’s,
on a piece of parchment folded over and over
on itself into a small square. I pulled you open
and you unfurled into flowing rivers of writing.
Every letter connected to the last, eddying over and around
each other in thin black lines – the last little bits left of you
immortalized in ink upon the page. Your spirit still
swirling in the words you left behind.
Bleeding through the cursive lines, your
voice speaks the last note you ever sent me.
I am sorry I can’t be there…
Nick Trelstad is a poet from the northernmost forests of Minnesota. He has had previous works of poetry published in literary magazines such as Sink Hollow and Blue Marble Review.