01.05.07

I.

We were five days late.
You died on the fifth,
the old year’s skin peeled back
to expose itself to the new times.

What a harsh climate,
cold so bitter it chaps and scales our skin.
While there are remedies, it never fully
disappears. It is a constant ubiquitous itch;
the fascination with white flakes when
skin becomes reminiscent of snow.
You didn’t have to worry about the
superficialities of the outsides anymore.

We drove down the road to buy flowers
at a little stand, and it occurred to me that
even death was a scam. Nine dollars for
a stone engraved with a generic saying to
put on top of a loved one’s headstone.

There is even a hierarchy in death –
this is the poor people’s section and
this is the section for the people so rich
they shit mausoleums out of their asses.

II.

It was hot and humid and raining.
I walked to get lunch anyway,
reasoning that it wasn’t far.
I ran into you and you chided me
for going out in the rain. You would’ve
given me a ride if I asked.

I didn’t want to impose.
You told me I was just like my father,
stubborn through and through.
You then drove me back to the office.
Your voice blended
with the beating
of the rain
against the van.

III.

My father and I got lost looking for your grave.
We were positive you were watching us and
laughing at the fact that we are both directionally
challenged.

I commented offhandedly that the cemetery
was a nice one. My father shot back that
it would be nicer if you weren’t buried in it.