THE FORGOTTEN

Rebecca Wilcock

I’m not sure why I’m here.
At the end of the drive,
I shuffle from foot to foot,
boots scraping against the gravel.
Pressed against the lamppost,
my back aches from the bite of the chill.
I throw a burning glare towards the door –
the one I used to walk through.
My wired headphones knot against my neck
like the tight coil in my stomach.

A soft light spills out.
I see them there –
his hand on a woman’s belly,
the same hand that once held mine
when I was small enough to fit in his arms.
A balloon sways behind them – It’s a girl!
The woman looks at him in awe.

I could knock, but I won’t.
I press play.
A song swells in my ears,
filling the silence, the stillness, the sorrow.
I let the music invade the space
where a goodbye should have been.
With nothing left to see,
I turn the volume up.