by Bob Thurber
(For Jessica)
That summer the only way I could speak to you was with my eyes, my smile, my silly expressions.
You were a toddler, unable to carry your end of a conversation.
So we played on the carpet, and I would captivate your attention by bringing a stuffed animal to life, moving its arms and head with gentle manipulations while squeaking my voice.
Then your mother would make tea and she and I would chat.
I only wanted to hear about you, how you had changed since my last visit, but the conversation always swayed to some other subject, something that didn't matter anymore, things far less important.
And that is how it went visit after visit, week after week, all that summer, until I couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't bare the sound of your mother's voice talking about a world I had no place in.
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