Why...

Here is what no one tells you

about magic…

it does not die

with the hands that held it.

It moves like light through water.

It finds a new voice.

It presses, warm and insistent,

into the chest of every child

who ever whispered to the dark,

is anyone listening?

I know now

what I am for,

To hold a mirror

to the ones

who do not yet know

they are already luminous.

You felt that too?

Write it down.

The story you are afraid to tell

is the one someone is starving for.

You are not too much.

You are exactly the right frequency.

I want to write westerns

for fathers who drove through the night.

Horrors for the ones who survived.

Wonder for the child

still waiting at the window,

face pressed to glass,

breath making small moons

on the cold pane.

I want to write you

back to yourself,

back to the first time

you pressed record

and heard your own voice

and thought:

Oh.

There I am.

The magic was never mine to keep.

It was always mine

to give away…

and every time I do,

every time a story

finds its way through the dark

to another chest,

my father drives

a little further down that highway,

the tape is still running,

and neither of us

is ever really

gone.