Tonight I taste your cancer,
my memory of your agony so real
and tangible

that I try hard to get rid of it -
mints, toothpaste, mouthwash, soap.

Tonight I hear your cancer too -
the brutality of your words was the vehicle
that tried to burn our bridges.

If I could do just one thing tonight,
I would reach out and hold your freezing hand,
one more time.

Start where you are. Hike your own journey, being careful
of rocks in the road. Use your inside voice. Remember
everyone has a story needing to be heard. Look for the tall
people in ALDI - they can reach the string cheese on the top shelf.
A repeated mistake is a decision. Every day, breathe outside air.
Read: street signs, back-of-the-box instructions, your housemates'
faces. If you can't be kind, be quiet.

mourning in morning
needing the mom i needed
they buried your soul