i am his poem
& we are here–
a breath tangled
inside a heavy heart.
i can tell my fear, you.
God, the way you watched me
cry in the middle of night,
pretending she is at my bedside.
“you’re okay, you’re alright.” but
the memory comes where she slips
a pendant of a saint into my purse.
to protect me, give me strength.
the way she said, “good luck.” –
her eyes watery when i passed
the test the second time. this
joy welling inside, careful for a spill.
i miss her. the reassurance quiet:
you were made for more.
here’s something I’m learning: grief, whether or not you acknowledge it, will find a way back to you when you least expect it. Like when you’re trying to sleep. And you’re staring into the dark when all of sudden, you’re crying.
not full on sobbing, but enough to feel the ache in your heart. and these memories come in a silent movie in your mind.
and you’re standing before this person you love. you can’t see her because everything is fuzzy, but your heart knows. and you can’t move.
you don’t want to lose her. you don’t want to say goodbye anymore. you want to tell your heart, “you’ve known goodbye. you can do it. Jesus will be there. you can sob on his shoulder. Go on, now.”
and you fall asleep. I start to well when I think about this.
Thankful Jesus is with me.