I think I might remember him, a little
The way he touches my cheek and calls me his son
His calloused hands ruffling my black hair
The warmth that spread throughout me
I think I remember him, a bit
The way he peeled citrus fruits with his bare hands
Sun-spotted and scarred
And my mother’s gentle hand on his arm
I think I remember him, in a way
The scars that wrapped around his hands
I was a curious child with a head full of dreams
But now it’s replaced with the ache of forgetting.
I hope he remembers me, to be honest
We share a smile and it makes my mother cry
Maybe he’ll arrive tomorrow, or maybe today
I think I will remember him, in a way.
Ariadne is a teenage writer who has a passion for musicals and mythology. She's currently working on a book, and two musicals- Queen Of Hell and Fifth Year.
-Ariadne Maria Marianos