Pale

A ghost.
A never told story of a barely there presence,
pale as the pretty photos of the birthdays
where she was there to smile.
She was always there, with the perfect advice,
an old story or a song.
She was there in his voice,
as he repeated the words he had committed to memory.
She was there in his hands,
as he toasted a sandwich against his better judgment.
She was there in his steps,
as he walked away leaving the door ajar.
She was there in the wreckage
when he let them take risks despite all of his fears.
She was alive to them.
But him?
He was a ghost. Always there, never known.
A translucent stranger that claimed to know their mom.