There is no ghost I’m waiting for,
no pigtailed braids or picking petals
off, or playtimes passed I half—
remember. Past times tend to
leave me faster than most others;
That I know.

When did I grow tall enough I
couldn’t see you anymore? I think
you died the day I laced my
sneakers up with no ones help,
or held someone instead of
folding; felt my body slip on
something stronger, meaner,
than it was.

Others wait and wave behind them,
little spirits watching; Better
yet they pluck you up and place you
on their weary shoulders, proud
parade of passed or passing lives. I
can’t hold what I cannot see. A
game you make of hide-and-seek; or
watching me get old.

There’s no one waiting for you when
you get to where you’re going; No
one reaching down to lift as you
reach up. One day you’re too heavy,
then it’s over.