The Death of the Patriarch

Like his hand, I try my own at all caps,
Los Lonely Boys singing on repeat.
The letters come out sloppily,
but the tunes have grown on me.

Sugar-cinnamon toast and surface-level chats,
topics about work, my school,
the only small talk my
introverted-self didn't dread. 

Music rekindles, it sparks my memory,
those 10 years, seemingly forgotten. 
But which one's which?
Which ones am I imagining? 

(Published in Oral Roberts University's literary journal: Promethia - 2017-2018 edition)

Reagan Fleming