Learning by Repetition
There have never been
enough balloons to do you justice.
Tuesday was no exception.
The rain left 12 Mylar hearts,
in screaming scarlet,
And then the sun came out.
It always does, doesn't it?
Even at your funeral.
When reverend Smith stopped eulogizing,
the rain stopped, and made steam
from damp lashes and soaked shirts.
That day though, later,
there were balloons.
They rose till they nearly disappeared,
became periods in distant eyes, because
there wasn't strength or conviction enough
for exclamation marks.
No, I was weak and young and quiet.
Now I've learned as all children learn best.
I've been taught the lesson of repetition.
I have stacked my periods one atop the other,
one longer, standing taller, but both
equally lost to the expanse of empty arms
and blue skies and hopelessness.
I know now that you are gone.
Despite the release,
regardless of punctuation,
all that is left are two short stories
and the blank page.
I will write your names,
over and over again, scatter them
to the winds of Autumn, and pray that,
like November leaf litter,
they become something fertile
and feed the springtime blooms
to become the rose corsage
pinned close to the heart
of another mother.