my father left on a Thursday
and we buried him on a Sunday
i'd never witnessed an earth so dull
the colors didn't explode and combust
the music didn't serenade and echo
no,
the clouds just poured and poured and poured again
mother said the angels were crying because they didn't want him this soon
their tears fell through the crevasses of a black sky
and my life became a silent film
my eyes could only see tones of grey
and as i removed my small hand from an oversized coat that belonged to him
i held onto the cherry wood of a coffin
i looked into it to see the black and white reflection of a small boy whose sadness could not be defined

and a decade later on Sunday the 8th of the bitter cold month of February
i wake up with colorless vision
and become deaf for the day
i revisit your grave
and the other mourners look on at me
a little child transformed once again
weeping in the warmth of a jacket that only seems to grow larger with time
and the angels can't help but to cry again
their pain reverberates throughout the field of death that appears to have no definite end
i peer over the gray hill of gray tombstones
and my eyes glaze over with a sheet of liquid melancholy
because i realize everyone has their own February the 8th