october
i could almost hear your voice through the text. “you know how i feel. i can't say any more.” i know, i thought. but i'll push anyway.
it was warm for early october. my friends were outside talking in the dark. i was alone inside.
i told myself you had a choice. but of course you didn't.
katelyn
leaves, red and gold. pale sunshine. late afternoon. was she special?
maybe not.
but at fourteen, strawberry blonde was my entire palette.
i hold you. i watch your chest rise and fall. we wake up. i smile. you smile.
instead i just bring you coffee. i smile. you smile. but you don't know.
the barn was dim. hazy sunlight through a window. sawdust, grease, machinery.
i found the sign behind a shelf. how long? must be decades. “cedar lake church of the brethren.” historic peace. rusted metal.
january
bluegrass, old church. brown grass, patches of snow. open ground, polished casket. some wore suits. i wore jeans. he wore jeans.
one funeral, many funerals. his house, measured for renovation. my house, sold. six acres, weeds and pine trees. my dog's old bones.
december snowstorm, two-hour drive in four hours. funeral home, report card on the table. wait, he went to college? what's that date?
december, 1941.
all my mugs are broken. not shattered. but not the same. chips, cracks, missing handles.
those jagged edges were smooth and complete.
and then they were mine.
pavement, pain, blood. broken glass. how bad? when will you wake up? will you wake up?
pavement, pain, blood. twenty years. not as bad. i can get home. why are you walking away from me? i can barely limp. you can see the blood.
do you still care?
snow flurries blur the street lamps. do you have food? a blanket? no. sorry. how have you been? bad. eating from the dumpster. i buy a blanket. i buy a gift card. here. thank you.
he'll be cold and hungry tomorrow. i cried that night.