Deathbed Conversation Leading to a Visit #NaPoWriMo

We talked on the phone,
Your hospital bed to my living room,
It was summer,
Your air smelled like overcooked meat and medicine,
Mine smelled like car exhaust and jasmine.
You had that infection that sends you running back for more,
More drugs, more rest, more worries,
Age softened you and made you forgetful,
Years trickling away, your heart full again,
You asked me for my drawings,
Told me you loved me,
How long had it been?
I was 14 years old the last time you loved me,
43 years lost.
At that moment that I booked a flight,
2446 miles, or six hours plus a layover,
Drawings in hand,
Too late.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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