Posthumous

It derails me
that at times
I worry about your passing.

I fear when you reside

in a yard of stones
that I will conjure up ways
I could have quieted my mind
if only you were here.

And you are here
and I can’t thread words together
and you won’t hear me
anyway.

I practice in my head;
on paper
with keystrokes flying.

I say everything I have ever wanted to say
and things I haven’t.
And yet, none of the words are right.

You won’t believe me
you won’t accept your role
in the path my life has taken;
the bruised soul you left behind;
the doubt in every thought and whisper
I deliver to my own spirit.

You will never
say
I am sorry.
I was wrong.

You will never
be someone I can count on
or lean on,
gain wisdom from
or trust.

And I will never be
what I pictured
you wanted me to be.

I am, as always,
trying to stay one step ahead of you
before you shock me
hurt me
betray me.

So I prepare for your passing.

I worry
that it
won’t be a comfort or
even painful;
but instead an extension
of a never ending question.

I won’t ever have the answers
in this life;
in yours --
in what has become ours.
You will take your reasons
with you.

And I worry I will be left behind
more buried than you-
even in death.

Will you pull me with you
more away from the living;
sharing the dust with you
as I try and assemble
the pieces of me that are left?

Or will I somehow find
a path
through the tall grass
and ragged stones
to flat land;
a place of solace-
reconciliation...
peace.

So, I prepare in my mind
for the end
of the possibility
that you
will ever
make things right.

And I know
I must start now
to look for the
path to flat land;
far away from
where you will be buried-
far away from where you
are now.

I am beginning
to trust my own compass
without the shadow of
your life
or death
inhibiting me.

I can see you
fading in the distance
even now.

And I...
am ready.