If I were to take a Celtic cross
From every casket I have knelt beside
My basement would be very crowded
Even more than it already is.
All this old Catholicism
Is sitting down there, waiting.
For us, God has become a collection,
Reminders that so many are no longer with us.
My family,
They don’t talk about death very often
So I turned to stories.
But the movies and the books,
They don’t show you the hardest parts.
When you miss them every day
When you are sad but it has long passed the time for crying
When your world is softer, less in focus,
The colors less bright.
They don’t tell you how to tell your father that you love him
When you are afraid of making him cry.
They don’t let you know how to call your sister at 1:32am
Asking for her forgiveness, and her apology,
And wishing that the heat of the phone on your ear
Was the heat of her cheek against yours.
Maybe they don’t tell you because we are trying to keep the hardest parts
A secret from ourselves.
Maybe they don’t tell you because you already know.
Maybe we are hoping that the hardest parts will become easier.
Some do get easier.
But some get harder too.
There is a difference between depression and sadness.
I didn’t know that before,
But I know it now.
Depression makes you feel as though you are dying
Sadness makes you feel alive,
Softly, without shouting.
Death has taught me that I can be happy when I am sad.
Death has taught me to love, without fear.
Death has taught me to cry, even when the time has long passed.
I miss you.
