IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald, and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house, and fly out from the inside of my car, screaming, "Don't do it! I'm here, Uncle Brandon! I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot, and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country, and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride, and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn, curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink, adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write, and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night. You looked awful and I knew something was wrong, but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.
You loved life, why did you leave?
You had love, why did you look?
We were your family, why did you leave?
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow, and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you. I would have grabbed that gun, and hugged you for the longest time, and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find, and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.
Uncle Brandons last poem
Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald, and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house, and fly out from the inside of my car, screaming, "Don't do it! I'm here, Uncle Brandon! I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot, and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country, and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride, and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn, curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink, adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write, and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night. You looked awful and I knew something was wrong, but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.
You loved life, why did you leave?
You had love, why did you look?
We were your family, why did you leave?
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow, and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you. I would have grabbed that gun, and hugged you for the longest time, and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find, and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.
Uncle Brandons last poem
Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.
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