Six months after he died
I dreamed of him.
He stood in the corner, of a family gathering,
wearing that sh** eatin' grin,
the one that said he had a secret
and was waiting for me to catch on.
He knew, I knew, he shouldn't be here.
And, he knew, I knew, he got me again.
My reaction tickled him,
like when we were kids
and he would coax me, his baby sister,
into the freezing Pine River
by promising,
on all that was holy,
and on my mother (who we believed was holy),
that the water was warm (this time).
And of course, gullible, I believed him. (everytime)
So, instead of testing the water with big toe,
I dove in , the way I do,
with both feet.
As soon as my body hit the frigid water,
before the first goosebump,
before the first clatter of knocking teeth,
before I could wish him dead,
he'd scamper out of the river,
and double over, in fits of delight.
I'd haul a** out of the river,
charge up the embankment.
and threaten him with fierce eyes,
tight fist and screaming voice.
And he would laugh, even harder.
But this time, in the middle of this gathering,
I shared his delight and
made my way across the room to him.
All the while, something inside me knew
this couldn't possibly last.
So I attempted to memorize his every detail,
the way I tried to memorize him,
when he lay still in the coffin,
before they shut the lid,
I wanted to hold this moment with both hands
grasping it with every ounce of strength, I could muster,
the way you do when your spirit knows
change is coming.
When I reached him
I said, "Hey Glen, you're dead. What's that like?"
(I probably could have said something more profound,
but what can I say? It was a dream.)
He smiled, a more distant, less familiar smile,
reached out and squeezed my hand.
Then he showed me the blackest sky
tunneled deep,
creating a pathway that eclipsed all sound,
and extended through the universe,
rooting its way to eternity,
filled with a million of the brightest, most magnificent, shooting stars
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