Pa

Veracruz

You always called me precious,

like it was a fact, not a feeling.

Even when I came home quietly, or too loudly,

or wore the wrong shoes,

you said it the same way you’d say,

pass the salt, or the moon is out tonight.

You taught me how to read

by dragging your finger across headlines,

your voice always warm and steady,

a lighthouse in a house that sometimes tilted.

You made everything a tune.

Breakfast had a beat,

laundry hummed under your breath.

You played those old songs

like they were messages only I could hear.

I still remember your feet,

and the way they moved when you danced,

all knees and elbows and freedom.

You always spoke like life was a long road,

and I should look both ways before I trusted anyone.

But you never taught me to drive.

Said there’d be time.

There wasn’t.

Sometimes I hear your voice in my own,

when I read a label out loud,

or curse at bad radio.

I wonder if you’d recognize me now,

if you’d still call me precious after everything.

But here’s what you don’t know:

I remember it all.

Every word, every note,

every crooked dance in the living room.

I’ve never forgotten. I just stopped saying it out loud.