So this is what it felt like.
People always told me that it would just feel like peace.
To me, I always imagined it to be a field of marigolds,
with the smells of golden amber and patchouli
wavering through my bones.
It was the days when my knotted hair
finally became unraveled and
you combed through the tangles while
the smell of berries and mint floated through the air.
It was the burnt butter of the waffles cooking in the iron
and thick bacon spewing bits
of grease out of the pan
as Mother cooked on cartoon-filled Saturday mornings.
I was always told that with peace,
there were no inviting questions.
No sinful, succulent maybes.
No mirroring what-ifs.
You in the arms of another,
no marigolds, tangles, or berries.
Death, you didn’t get me this time.
I will be okay.