It’s very quiet,

But it’s not quiet enough.

Everyone whispers, at funerals.

But no one ever shuts up.

 

There is a collage near the front,

With pictures of you.

When you were small,

When you were young,

And then some from near the end.

You smile in all of them.

 

So many people come up

and talk about your smile.

 

I don’t remember your smile when I think of you.

I remember humid afternoons,

And games I was too young to play,

And strained voices

traveling through the vents.

 

I miss you, still.

But I don’t think of your smile.