The Part I Don't Say

There’s a field behind the house

where the grass grows tall enough

to hide small things—

a dropped glove,

a child’s marble,

whole summers.

I walk there at dusk,

listening for something

I never name.

The wind moves through the grass

like a hand brushing hair

from a face

I refuse to describe.

There is a sentence

I almost speak

each time the phone rings.

It rises to the back of my throat,

a tide that never reaches

the shore.

People tell me

the field is beautiful.

They point to the way

the light catches the tips

of the grass,

how it looks like a thousand

tiny lanterns.

I nod.

Beauty is easier

than truth.

There’s a memory

I keep folded

like a letter

I won’t open.

The crease in the paper

is the only part

that still feels warm.

Some nights,

I dream of the field

and wake with my hands

curled around nothing—

fingers shaped

by what they meant

to hold.

I go back at dawn,

stand in the wet grass,

and let the silence

do the talking.

What’s missing

is the only thing

that answers.