You died nearly ten months ago
Yet I still cry for you today
And everyday.
Scrolling through my Apple Wallet,
I found a ticket,
Long expired,
To an April Mariners game
Just five weeks before you would depart.
The malignancy had silently invaded your lungs,
Rendering you flushed and tachypneic after walking just a few feet.
So I purchased a mobility wheelchair
So you could conserve your energy
During the myriad medical appointments
And that final trip
To one more Mariners game.
As much as I tried to push it away,
I couldn’t shake the thought
Of what others were thinking.
Staring and seeing someone so young
Being pushed around
By this tired looking man,
Did they pity you?
Did they quickly look away once your eyes met theirs?
I stared beams into the pupils
Of those who wouldn’t break their gaze.
“It’s rude to stare,” I wanted so desperately to say,
But instead I said nothing
And kept it all inside.
A different type of malignancy
Festering and foul.
You maintained your dignity,
And I maintained my composure.
I kept it together
Until I found the shadows
Of a darkened alcove
And let it all go.
My shoulders rattled
And my gut quivered
So this is what it feels like
To be disemboweled
By an invisible force
Destroying me
And
Robbing you of yourself,
Day by day
And piece by piece
Until your body no longer moved.
A sac of organs and bone
Your blood, still,
And slowly curdling.
The battle was finally forfeited.
I stripped myself of the weaponry and armor
And laid my head upon your chest,
Hoping to hear the reanimation of aorta, atria and ventricles
But the battle was over
And you were gone
Never again to return.
As the clock struck midnight
I cried for you then
As I cry for you now.
Peering through blurry eyes
The shapes lack definition and the colors run,
So I wipe away the tears
And scratch my eyes to focus
But when my identity is the shape of smoke
There’s nothing to collect
To hold against this heart
And call it my own
An identity of smoke
A million miles
Away from
Home.