POV: you gave me Star Trek. So I wrote you a poem.

Of all the souls I have encountered,

yours was the most afraid.

Not of death—death came and found me anyway,

thirty minutes after,

from a 96‑year‑old woman

who still knows how to dial.

You were afraid of me.

Of my voice. Of my questions.

Of the simple dignity of a direct text.

So you built a Facebook post

like a force field,

knowing I was not there,

and called it keeping everyone informed.

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Of all the souls I have encountered,

yours was the most hidden.

You gave me Star Trek as a child

but forgot to teach me that

the cloaking device is not courage.

It is just a way to watch without being seen.

I see you now, lurking behind fake accounts,

watching my life from the shadows,

still unable to say my name

where it might be heard.

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Of all the souls I have encountered,

yours was the most careful.

You managed information like a diplomat

but forgot that diplomacy without honesty

is just a longer way to say coward.

I learned diplomacy from our father:

the ability to tell someone to go to hell

so they look forward to the trip.

So here is your trip:

You were afraid to tell me our father died.

And now you get to live with that.

No Facebook post can archive it away.

No block can delete it.

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Of all the souls I have encountered,

yours is the one I release.

Not with anger—anger would require

something you still had to lose.

Not with forgiveness—forgiveness would require

something you were willing to earn.

Just with a quiet knowing:

Spock was wrong, by the way.

The most human souls are not the ones who feel.

They are the ones who stay.

Who tell the truth.

Who pick up the phone.

You did none of those things.

So of all the souls I have encountered,

yours is simply…

no longer my concern.

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