For Kenna

By Hannah Yale

The Universe is so cruel for taking you away.

I don’t know if I can ever forgive it. 

I know that I will spend the rest of my life missing you.

I miss your hugs,

your flashing pirate smile–

your bravery and perseverance 

in spite of all the bullshit.

I miss your voice–

the Texas and Virginia accents all mixed up–

how you always smelled like cigarettes,

and how you kept dozens of polaroids from over the years.

I miss finding you asleep in your chair on the porch,

a book on your lap and a cigarette between your fingers–

I think you burnt a hole in your sweater like that once.

I miss being able to steal your clothes, too.

I miss how crazy smart you were,

how you beat me in Killer Sudoku every time–

I miss sipping wine and reading in our room together,

and stopping each time we found a word we didn’t know

so we could discuss and put it on our “vocab wall.”

I miss your presence,

your energy,

your love.

Today is your birthday–

you would have been 27.

We would have had a party if you were still here.

Instead, I’ll carry you in my pocket and remember you with love.

We’ll eat your favorite cookies from Sheetz instead of a birthday cake,

and smoke a joint by the water in your honor.

We’ll build a paper boat and let it go in the river,

let it drift into the Chesapeake Bay.

You always wanted to sail around the world. 

I don’t know where you are now,

but there’s a sailboat in the water for you.