forty-five years old cut short

Fifteen years old, dust notes dancing in the sunbeams slanted through the broken windowpane. Forty-five, that's how old he was, my dad, gone before the summers even begun. Abandoned house, smelled of damp earth and decay, not a place a man should meet his end. gunshot's echo, still rings in my ears, a sound that stole my childhood, stole my friend. Mama cries softly, a low keening sound, the kind that chills you to the bone. I see his face, etched in my memory, a lifetime of love, cruelly overthrown. The sheriff's words, hollow and official, investigation, they said, they'd find out why. But some questions remain, unanswered and deep, a hole in my heart, that will never heal They say time heals, but the wound's still fresh, a scar on my soul, a constant, dull ache. I see his shadow in every empty room, a ghost of a laugh, a memory I can't shake. The world keeps spinning, oblivious to my pain, the sun still rises; the birds still sing their song. But the melody's off, a discordant note, since the day my father was cruelly wronged. Now I walk this earth, a little bit broken, carrying his memory, a heavy weight to bear. Forty-five years, cut short by a bullet, leaving only silence and despair