And now I rarely think of you.

There are too many other things, even now,

crowding, shaking, my mind.

Babbling on television,

quibbling on social media, the internet,

staring straight at me about my future, the future.

A year from now I’ll only remember you on your birthday, or every Christmas.

After that, only at those odd, infrequent hours of the night that occur once or so in a blue moon.

I suppose if I had picked up your music and keyboard…

I wanted to, even.

But I didn’t.

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