The Last Family Reunion
by Sabrina Dawkins
You haven’t aged a bit,
crisp clothes with matching jewelry,
shiny hair.
I wanted to regret
the years I didn’t miss you.
I hadn’t seen you in a decade,
but it seems like just yesterday.
Chewing gum is like small talk:
Afterwards, an empty stomach
and a sore jaw.
Unfilled, I leave you once again.
And I will not miss you this time either,
the chatter about pro sports scores,
trips to random countries,
new jobs, retirements,
your trust in godless fox politicians.
But of the Bible,
you have no knowledge.
White hair hidden
under colorful chemicals
as if you can erase the years spent
on entertainment
and hollow small talk,
going to a false church
to be taught
nothing.
I can say in this case
I hate being proven right.
I hate not missing you,
would’ve rather had the guilt
of avoiding you.
It seems like just yesterday
I said goodbye before.
And this time will be the last.
My eyes slightly squinted
as they dry-heaved a cry
for the loss of you,
whom I never had,
to the world
who will never care about you
or love you
the way I would’ve wanted to.