I dream you every night, clear as the empty bottle of gin on my table. I once thought you lived in the bottom of them, so I did my best to drink you free. Turns out you’re someplace darker, more dangerous…my head.
 
I see you like a memorized photo, bouncing that official sized ball in your eight-year-old hand. You saved up for months for that thing and made me shoot hoops every night. You said it was our own kind of shooting, the kind where no one gets killed. That’s the kind of thing you just don’t say, didn’t I tell you? Even then I believed in the Fates.
 
Sometimes, just before I peel my eyes open to the morning, you’ll grab my hand, hold it like mom used to make us do before crossing the street. I used to hate that. Now I want to hold on forever. Maybe that’s what this is, me holding on, dreaming you here with me.
 
I still have the ball you know. Kept it safe, even if I couldn’t do the same for you.