The calling of your violin is like a razor on my naked spine.
At three I never guessed you'd see six foot five.
I hoped your love for the Spice Girls was just a phase and it was, thank goodness, they were so irritating.
I can't believe you slept in the darkest room in the house with the curtains drawn and hope squeezed out,
not even a ray could break in and make you smile.
At three years old you gathered the strings of my heart and played them the way you mastered Vivaldi.
But I never saw it coming, never saw the moment when everything stood still,
when the wind refused to budge and my eyes could not blink.
I never thought you'd ever leave.
It never crossed my mind that someone larger than life could cease to exist.
You, you with the ability to manipulate strings into notes so profound we'd hold our breath and descend, drown in them,
then surface at your crescendo, gulp and gasp at orchestrated magic.
Where is your encore?
Where is my peace?
My God I hate you.
I hate you like I hate the Spice Girls,
like I hate that house with its heavy window dressings and walls full of bloody stories it can't tell.
I hate each morning, each night with the thought that I never got to say
I'm so proud of you.
October 3, 2016 - 5am EST