"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.