I found your handwriting penned
into the back cover of an old hymnal,
the letters slanted, leaning
toward a light you trusted more than yourself.
I trace the ink as if it were a map,
leading me somewhere far but familiar:
a kitchen table, a prayer whispered
between sips of cooling coffee.
I am older now, but not wiser,
still trying to understand the gravity
of things passed down.
Some inherit land,
some inherit silver,
but I inherited your ache to believe
in something eternal,
too large to fit into a hymnal,
but small enough to fit between
the lines you left behind.