Papa, written by Jessica Buchanan
In the Boars Head hat with the elastic completely worn.
In your eyes right where the lights been torn.
I’m numb and I think that means I’m forgetting.
So I don’t forget your chair at the center of the table.
That album filled to the brim with pictures and more importantly stories.
But those words keep slipping through my grip.
It keeps fading.
The old phone charger in a hotel room in Jersey.
Your wise cracks delivered in perfect time.
In front of myself.
To remember that I’ll be the reminder.
A living memory.
And not always a thing completely torn.