Life Goes On

I plant roses by your head.
Red ones - though I know you'd say
"Darling they're too gaudy, plant something else."
But I can't.
Crysanthemums mean to remember,
But to remember something means
there is a chance it might be forgotten.

I'll never forget.

It's sad the way your stone is overgrown,
Time has etched the granite
Like I imagine your heart was etched
by its dysphoria.

So I pull away the weeds at their roots,
My lips spilling fervent prayers,
As if my smoke-breath words can even make a difference.
"Is is nice up there?" I ask,
And I imagine you shaking your head
"It's all a matter of perception." you'd say.
While you tell me about your swing-set filled,
Bomb free,
War free,
Consistent 78 degrees heaven.
"They only serve vanilla ice cream here" you laugh,
Your eyes smiling like they haven't in years.
Vanilla was your favorite flavor.

I still keep your letters in a box,
And I re-read them sometimes,
Wondering what made you put that gun,
To your head
and pull the trigger.
"I'm tired" you'd say, over and over,
Your handwriting never betraying the unsturdiness
of your heart.
"It's never going to end."

Eventually it did.
And life goes on.

Someday I know I'll see you again,
Just as I know the weeds I pulled today,
Will probably be back tomorrow.
But before I go
I tuck fifty cents in the crabgrass
next to your etched stone.
Just in case you meet the Boatman,
or need some extra ice-cream money.