driftwood ovenbird Fifteen years ago your breath stopped bringing you in on the tide. And now you are driftwood, lost to the shore, unknowable. On my brother's birthday you always brought me a gift. Nothing that would upstage the present you brought for him, just a tiny gesture that said “I know this day belongs to someone else, but you still matter, I still see you,” and you would slip something into my hands–a notebook, a multi-coloured pen, a snow globe. Once you were gone I gave your name to my daughter, planting it in a secret place where it isn't so much uttered as carried, a gem tucked away, marveled at quietly when the light strikes just right. The distance between us grows. It will stretch so far that it makes a circle and, one day, I'll relax my grip on this world and find you in the place of endless beginnings. I believe that you will know me. 250821 what's it to you? who go blather from