I Drift in Directions Where You Aren’t

It’s been 5,533 days since your time clock stopped. 
I try not to think about your absence, 
but today’s your birthday,
which makes a difference.

You had 22,959 days, not a second more.

In the grand scheme, it isn’t much. 

It wasn’t enough. 

I want to celebrate your spirit, your heart,

the times we weren’t apart, 

but sometimes it’s too hard to remember the good 

when you’re not here anymore. 

I had 10,834 days with you,

but I’ve lived a third of my life

wondering what you’d think

about songs, music, movies, me, 

my successes, my failures, my sadness,

my joy, and everything in between.

I knew someday I’d have to live

without your advice or you reminding me

of who I can be, 

but I never thought it’d be before I was thirty.

Now I drift in directions

I hope will lead me the right way,

never quite sure of my footing

or my plans

or of who I am. 

I just keep going,

hoping someday

you can tell me I did okay

without you.

All that Remains

 If you pulled back the black velvet

draped heavily over my heart,

you'd find nothing but emptiness

surrounded by bone. 

If you dove into the darkest depths

of my mind's sea of memories,

there wouldn't be anything to see - 

just you all alone.

If you look close enough,

there's nothing here - 

just the shadow of what was

before life got in the way.

When There's No You

I believed, hoped even, 

that soon you'd get better, 

leave the sterile walls

of hospital rooms

behind. 

You did, 

but you left me, too.

It was morning

on a Monday

when the prepositions

I used in front of "you"

changed

from "with" to "without".

Who knew adding 3 letters

would ruin so much?

Who am I now

without you?

I still don't know

fourteen years later.

Our Last Drive

 
The hot evening wind whips your hair about
as your hide-the-eyes sunglasses block out the dust and sun.
You look like a Hollywood icon, or maybe some Bond girl on the run.

The top’s down on the midnight blue Miata you picked and paid for yourself
just in time for the Cancer to make you a passenger in yet another aspect of your life.

It’s been a long winter
with chemo, radiation, and heart palpitations that were really myocardial infarctions and a sign we didn’t have much time left.

We didn’t know it but that last drive was it – the last of a life with still too many days left unlived.
We swoosh around the curves like we’re riding waves
though we were always both too afraid to go out past the breakers.
The sand closer to shore always felt safer, even with jellyfish stings and crab claw toe pinches.

A dusty rose falls all around us as day gives way to night.
The mid-March humidity dissipates with the sunset and we hit a straightaway of smooth sailing.
No cars are ahead in the distance or in the rear view –
just our two high beams breaking up the fading light.

This road, this asphalt sea, is ours as the night rolls in behind us.
We miss our turn twice but keep on driving.
People are at the house waiting, but you’re not ready to turn around.
After all, the streetlights haven’t come on yet.

The darkness is a high tide rolling in above us as we sink beneath the surface in silence.
We know the road is going to end sooner than we expected or hoped.
We had no idea the next day this moment and you would be another memory in my mind to hold onto rather than  your tan, freckled hand with knobby knuckles and slender fingers I’d know anywhere.

We lose time as we drive along the back roads of our lives.

We don’t dare interrupt this moment where what will be and what has been don’t exist – just what is.

I steal a peek at you, huddled next to me, arms wrapped tight, holding yourself in one piece against the cooling air. I switch on the heat, redirect the blast to our feet so it isn’t lost in the night, and watch happiness spread across your lips, cheeks, your body as if you were standing in the bright warmth of a high noon, deep south July sun.

This snapshot of you lives in perfect polaroid detail in my memory palace among the many shrines I’ve built to you.

Eventually, we make our way back home, and though we didn’t know you were leaving the next day, we both knew the second we locked blue-eye-to-blue-grey-eye there would be no more top-down drives in our future.

Sometimes I can still feel the hum in my bones of the tires meeting the road, riding into darkness like we did so many years ago – you sitting by my side, forever glamorous in sunburst yellow and leopard print.

I’ll never know what it’s like to live so loudly without ever saying a word.

We Live Twice

 Egyptians believed we died twice.

First, our bodies withered into dust

and nourished the spaces around us.  

Then, our spirits slipped away
when others stopped saying our names.

I believe we live twice. 

Once until our hearts stop.

And once until our memories are lost - 

not just our names, not just our legacies,

but the rooms of our loved ones' memory palaces

we reside in until oblivion.

When we are no longer remembered,

we are no more.

It may seem the same - 

living and dying with the grave

and your name.

But it isn't - 

it'll never be about how you die.

It's about your life,

and how you lived it.

May your second life

be immortal.

Burning Out

No one sees how dark it is

because I turn on every light

when they come around

like this is how I live

the minutes in my life. 

It's easier to put on a show

than lie to make them feel

better

safe

or like we're all okay.

I'd rather pretend,

make it seem okay

than say the words out loud.

The lies are always easiest

to believe, to hear

but never to tell.

The truth is

the lights are burning out

one-by-one,

and soon

you'll see

what it's like for me.

Was It Real?

Do you carry me with you

in your memory palace,

or am I lost in the sea of thoughts

you refuse to think again?

I believed I mattered to you,

that 23 years meant something

and you couldn't do to me

what you did to everyone else.

But it's been almost 4 years

since I've heard your laugh,

your excitement about new projects,

your worries about problems

you helped create.

Did I imagine it?

The heartache reminds me

it was real

even if you try to pretend

it wasn't.

I was there.

I remember.

Do you?