Eight Years

Eight years ago he sent an email.

"Can I visit? I have time to spare."

So simple. So patient. A single question

asking permission to matter,

to show up,

to be there.

I said I was busy.

I said later, not now.

I said nothing for long enough

that he stopped asking.

Now I read it and understand—

the light arrives,

sudden and too bright,

and I see what he was asking:

Do you want me?

Am I allowed?

Three years ago he died.

I found this message

while deleting old mail,

the date stamp showing me

exactly how long I had

to say yes,

exactly how long I wasted

saying no

without knowing

that's what I was saying.

He wasn't asking for much.

Just permission.

Just to know if he mattered.

Just to hear me say:

yes,

come.

Come.

Come.

Come.