Today, I stopped to listen.

I listened to the hallways and how your voice was still nailed to them among the rows of picture frames.
They all showed me your grinning face.

I listened to the way your laughter still echoed off your bedroom walls and listened to the drawers overflowing with the desire to be opened by you.
They held all your memories.
I listened to the posters on your wall call out to you by name,
they asked me where you’ve been.
I listened to the clothes in your closet say that it’s cold without you.

I just sighed and told them that I knew.

Today, as I lay on your bed,
I heard the six-year-old you putting your first tooth under your pillow.
I heard secrets and sleepovers and soft snores.

Today, I finally stopped and listened,
and among the noise I heard you apologize.

I wish you had stopped to listen.