Northern_Lights_2021

14 Last night. I dreamt of your funeral. There were no women at the foot of your grave, No brothers in arms to shoulder the burden of your life in its final procession, No weeping or wailing or gnashing of teeth, I watched as you struck at the void holding you in between time and space, Looking for someone to blame or coax into taking your place. On your face I saw every blow you ever dealt. It wrecked your skin, your blue eyes sunken and dead, Twisted you into familiar shapes of rage and desperation. You kept screaming but nothing came about. Your string had already been cut; the death bell already set tolling. The fields surrounding my childhood home sprung around you, Dragging you down further to your knees, Wrapping you in dead weeds. They continued to twist and shift, masking you into their green and yellow, Consuming you, and I forgot your voice as you faded. In your place, wildflowers started to push through, Careful and small, Their fragile heads held higher and higher as they grew, A reminder to live and grow. To continue. I awoke to flowers on my nightstand. And I thought of you. And for the first time in a long time. I did not die with your memory. Perhaps I am growing too. For amoment I thought there was a God. Emeline Glover