The Smallest Things (Cognac and Flowers)

My father writes to me every day, Tiny letters folded in the sky. He tells me what movies he’s watched alone, And how the leaves swayed on his walk home. Every two weeks, he sends a bouquet— Too yellow, too wild, too real. He says he picks them like memories: Not perfect, but worth keeping still. He brings me roses and a bottle of cognac, Wears that coat with the threadbare sleeves. Says, “This is for the little moments,” And smiles like he’s telling me a secret. New Year’s comes, the oven glows, He makes roast beef, says “Don’t open the door.” The house smells like old stories— Ones that never needed words before. And I wonder, in the quiet after, How many songs begin like this— Someone trying to remember What it felt like to be loved like this. And still, he writes to me every day. And still, the flowers bloom on Tuesdays. I think he knows I never say it— But I read them all. I always do.