They say the most you can ask for is composure on your deathbed. Composure. I will compose a sonata staccato with tears, compose a sonnet of my fears and desires lost to time. If stoicism is all that¡Çs left you¡Çre truly dead before your time. But I am doing the dying for you. Cry out! At least to make easier the watching you. In my mind I have already reduced you to dust. I have claimed you young as you were with the accordion and your hair a dusky red in black and white. I have captured him who you go so swiftly to meet in a sailor¡Çs uniform, sand between his toes as he surfaces gasping the air that no longer sings for your lungs. It is in stories, so few, that you remain to me. Mostly that I wouldn¡Çt let you hold me, less than 2, and only cry and cry and later in my life reach back for you. Maybe you remember gardens, a girl you galloped through, a lover, now lost to you returning. Maybe I am the one who dies— Mourning.
