Ben

We met on a Sunday

a few months after the world shook,

and burned.

Your smile swept the ash,

and my hair,

away from my face.

You gave me sheet music,

and taught me songs,

in French,

that are still stuck in my head.

We played them together,

Your voice and guitar,

My flute and penny whistle,

like a kitchen band

without any dancers.

We strolled down the street,

with your brothers,

and breathed labor-less breaths,

as we laughed so deeply,

it felt criminal,

like a toddler throwing a tantrum

in the middle of a church service.

I loved you that day,

grateful for the hope,

and light,

which your presence alone gave.

Though I have never seen you again,

I carry the pearl of it

with me still.