Beetlejuice Was Never a Spell

Beetlejuice.
Beetlejuice.
Beetlejuice.

You loved those movies
the soundtrack,
the Universal Studios show
we went to see
because you loved it so much.

After you were gone,
they became memories.

Beetlejuice.
Beetlejuice.
Beetlejuice.

I used to wish
that if I said your name enough times
you would come back
just once more
to laugh,
to play,
to hum along
to the Banana Boat Song.

I would push your wheelchair
as the sun sank low,
orange, pink, and blue
spilling across the sky.
My dad would whistle
Daylight come and we want to go home
because you loved it so much.

Beetlejuice.
Beetlejuice.
Beetlejuice.

Years later,
I sat in Orlando
with our whole family,
watching the show
in your honor.

There was a space
between my dad and me
where you should have been.

The show was bittersweet.
I couldn't stop remembering
all the moments we shared
how joy once felt so easy.

Beetlejuice.
Beetlejuice.
Beetlejuice.

And then you were there
sitting between us,
watching the show.

We made eye contact.

No fear.
No surprise.
Just knowing.

You laughed.
You smiled.
Your excitement filled the space
as if nothing had ever been taken from us.

And I understood
this was the last time
you would show yourself to me.

One final family moment.
One last shared joy.
One gentle goodbye
wrapped in music,
sunset,
and love.