I remember
your eyes
huge and wide
when you
laughed
like you
wanted
to see
more joy,
your face
opening up
like a book.
I was always
swept up
by your hands
telling stories,
your unmistakable
pinky and thumb
switching back
and forth,
saluting the
waves in conversation
the way you’d greet
friends
at the ocean.
I’d get lost
in your starry night,
the beauty marks
your gran wanted
to surgically remove,
but you refused.
Where others
saw moles
you saw
the milky way.
That’s when
I fell
into the
unknown,
into the deepest
parts of you.
I must've spent hours listening
to a lifetime
of stories and
tracing the tattoos
on your arm.
A lantern
to light the way.
Flowers
to honour those
you love.
But the bear,
the bear bled out.
It always bothered me
that you weren’t
concerned
by the death of him.
That you… let it go.
Was it a red flag?
A bad omen?
My gut told me
Run. Leave! Quick -
before she does.
Last night,
I found myself
rubbing
one foot
with the other
to drift off to sleep.
The sheet softly
wrestling
as if you’re
still with me.
Chantal Vallis is a Kitchener, Ontario based poet and writer who has completed creative writing and literature courses at the University of Waterloo and Queen’s University. Her work has appeared at the Eden Mills Writers’ Festival and in the anthology Out Proud: Stories of Pride, Courage, and Social Justice.
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