fumble with my fork as he tells me he "gets" my depression;
sunday morning church crowd in a diner off the highway.
mumble something about refusing medication.
he applauds me for being "strong"
which has always been the goal,
unattainable as it is.
he says "you're not independent enough.
21 years old.
so grow up,
and pay your own way."
and i say, "yes sir."
and he says, "if you need anything, i'm here."
my face flushes hot with confusion, embarrassment.
small jars of honey on the table, just asking to be stolen.
i fix my gaze to one, as a question falls from my mouth:
"why do you have a book called 'planning ahead: how to write your will?'"
cut back to that cup of coffee
those eggs, bacon, back pain, old age
he says "i won't be here to see you guys have kids."
i feel tears falling, scalding like acid.
love you too.
rewrite of my 2012 poem "small jars of honey," posted on here. feedback on changes DEFINITELY welcome!