Author Adelaide Green

The little things collect.

The way pocket change collects on the bottom of my car.

I miss the way you brined the turkey.

Changing up the way you made it every year.

I miss the way you complained about the boxed stuffing,

swearing next year you’d be making it yourself.

I miss how you always had washer fluid for my car,

even when I was married,

you knew I would run out and forget and I keep doing it.

You smiled with your eyes and your face lit up when we were all around the table.

We don’t do that anymore. As if the ghost of your smile haunts that table.

I sat outside staring into the sun thinking of your tanned skin.

I’d come over “I am trying to get some vitamin d”

“The doctor says if I can get some it might make me feel better.”

I never thought I’d miss grabbing you zofran when you were feeling queasy.

I had moments wishing that pain would end for you,

helping you walk to and from the bathroom, you were so fragile.

But in these moments, I miss the little things. All of them. Even the sad ones.

They’re better than the emptiness you left behind.