For Brian, Somewhere in Upstate South Carolina
The hands of the clock meant little to you.
Rather, they pointed out concepts, made
suggestions, whispered epiphanies. Your muse:
a last-minute hey-if-you-get-around-to-it
calling from just beyond a wall of fog.
But you always showed, and always with
an offering: books, music, a kind word.
Back left corner: an empty seat.
At graduation, your mother’s bowed
weeping face, your father’s grim silent
nod in my direction across a velvet
regalia sea. I fumble across the dusty
parquet, and nearly trip on my own
useless funnel of a sleeve.
Double-major diploma, with honors
that you are not here to receive.
Somewhere in upstate South
Carolina, beneath the cheap tan chenille
of winter-fallow fescue, you lie
in a burlwood box.
My heart still drops.
It may never hit bottom.
Bio: R.S. Williams taught college writing for 19 years before starting a new career as a freelance writer-artist-editor. She documents the small things most of us miss: moments when light falls across a wall, a sign, the sky, a face. Her current projects include the photo series For Wes and her debut novel, Songs My Father Barely Knew.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.