I run my fingers over my face

by Duncan Mercredi

I run my fingers over my face, tracing them over my eyes, my nose, my lips, my head bowed while listening to a song that allows memories to drift in and out of someone I remembered, trying to make sense of a name I can’t recall, I cup my face in my hands, breathing in the scent of my hands that still carry yesterdays,
I remember watching my father, sitting quietly by the window, watching a sleepy village slip by as he rubs his hands together then he would close his eyes and trace his fingers across his face then before he opens his eyes he cups his face in his hands, glances out to watch a child play in the rain, touches the window before him tracing the raindrops as they drift down the glass, I watch through the past of my yesterdays as they appear, I listen for the voices, now faded, whispers, really, I watch as he looks out the window, wondering why the house is so quiet
I listen, an old song, only the piano sings and I wonder, as many  times as our words collided, I am more like you than I thought I would be, I run my fingers over my face, tracing the hidden scars, I cup my hands, place my face between them and I hear them, they whisper, look, I wonder if he sees the dreams his father carried.


dRm/April/dreams his father carried/2022

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