I had a passion once—

so long ago now,

I don’t even remember what it felt like

to hold it.

It died

when he died.

I was thirteen,

and it already felt like

I had lost my soul.

My reason for breathing.

Music was everything.

What I wrote.

What I sang.

What I listened to.

My grandfather passed away when I was thirteen.

I didn’t cry.

I just stood in silence

as I watched him leave.

And I blamed myself.

Blamed the way I sang—

too passionately,

too loud,

hurting his ears.

Even though others praised me for my voice,

I didn’t care.

Because I had hurt someone I loved.

And so I stopped singing.

When he died,

my passion died.