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Todd associates poetry with Neil; both writing and reading it. When he starts writing poetry, and he’s particularly proud of one, he can’t wait for Neil to read it. He would look at his expression as his eyes moved through the lines, at the glint of his eyes when he finished and looked up at him again, a smile tugging at his lips. At times he would write something just to see his reaction, just to see him smile at him like that. Like he was proud.
“You’re going places with this, Todd. I know it.” He would say, like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind. When Todd brushed it off, he would repeat it with even more confidence, giving him no room to argue. He wanted to believe him. Sometimes he started to.
After Neil’s death, the mere thought of writing poetry brought him to tears. The mere thought of sitting down in front of a blank page felt exhausting, impossible. Why write if he wasn’t there to read it? Why write if he wasn’t there to feel it, to be moved by it?
It took him years to write again. When he finally sat down to do it, it felt as if it was ripped out from within him. It felt as if his hands moved on their own. Through held back tears he could see the words emerging, engraving the page.
He read it out loud to himself, his voice rough and quivering. He thought he would have been proud.