"Broken"

The weight of your absence

presses upon my eighteen year old shoulders.

The weight of my tears dent my well-loved plaid shirt as they fall

like my heart

when I found out you had gone.

At eighty-something,

you left too early.

I can’t even remember exactly how old you were.

That’s heavy.

 

Now I carry an image,

one that blurs your teasing cobalt eyes,

in my back pocket.

 

I carry Red Man

and bib overalls

and pancakes

and your frayed navy and white conductor’s cap

and the knowledge that you didn’t want to leave.

But you got the call.

 

Every year on March 16th I shed a tear

and a bit more of the weight that used to crush me.

Now you’re a memory.

 

Remember the night you sat in your porch rocker

under the stars?

You punched holes in the top of an old Skippy jar

and handed it to six year old me.

That night, I caught fifteen fireflies

and a cold.

I’d give anything to go back to a time

when I danced in the lawn

on dew soaked toes.

Now I carry,

in my heart,

your smile,

which was brighter than my lightning bugs.

 

I carry your jokes with me

when I’m feeling funny

and when I feel like I’m going to cry,

I pick up your resounding laughter

and carry it around until I can’t help but giggle

right along with you.

 

I carry my final goodbye

in a heart shaped envelop

buried deep inside my chest.

I never said the words

because I refused to believe that I would have to.

 

 

I’ve carried your memory

through four sun drenched summers

and four winters that seem to breathe a chill

into my ice bitten fingers

which are always cold,

just like yours were.

 

… and I’ll carry you with me till I see you again.

Somewhere beyond the clouds.

 

 

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