Bloodline Static

The card came in a gold-lined envelope,

a formal notice that the world is slightly lighter.

I remember the way he’d choke the neck of a bottle,

his knuckles white, his voice a gravelly engine

running over every story anyone else tried to tell.

He smelled like a bowl of stale peppermints

and the heavy, wet wool of a coat that never dried.

He’d lean in too close, a cloud of cheap tobacco,

to explain a joke that was never funny to begin with,

waiting for a laugh he hadn't earned.

I looked at the black-and-white photo in the fold,

the same mean set to his jaw I see in the mirror

on the days I’m tired and lose my temper.

I put the card in the bin under the junk mail,

feeling a small, sharp guilt for the relief of the silence.