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Two nights after he died,
all night time I heard the identical
one-line story on repeat:
I’m the girl whose son
took his life. The phrases
felt filled with self-pity,
stuffed me with hopelessness, doom.
After which a voice got here,
a girl’s voice, simply earlier than daybreak,
and it gave me a brand new shade of fact:
I’m the girl who learns
tips on how to love him now that he’s gone.
It didn’t change the details,
nevertheless it modified all the pieces
about how I met the details.
Over 100 days later,
I’m nonetheless studying what it means
to like him—how love is
an ocean, a wildfire, a crumb;
How dedication to like modifications me,
modifications everybody,
invitations us to convey our greatest.
Love is wine, is trampoline,
is an infinite track with a refrain
by which I’m sung.
I’m the girl who learns
tips on how to love him now that he’s gone.
Might I all the time be studying tips on how to love—
like a cave. Like a rough-legged hawk.
Like a solar.
