It comes in waves, they say,
We should expect it
To split us open and be waiting there.
It feels unfair, for I don’t want to carry
This weight. It’s viscous, dripping —
Even typing’s heavy —
And I’m not nearly ready to be old.
But old I feel, and in that age
There’s nothing for it but to carry on.
Although you’re gone — and sure,
I hardly knew you,
For how can we know anyone, much less,
I guess, our parents —
I thought that I could tell you to my brother,
Another child half-orphaned and grown old.
It’s much to soon for daylight
In this city.
Pity me when morning comes too soon.
I’m not your eldest child, only eldest
Of those I knew, for you
Had other children.
Another life before you gave us ours.
I’ll be down there tomorrow,
I’ll be weeping,
Although you hated crying more than cold.
But you were bold, and I’ll be
Collect my son and travel once again
Before the sun comes round.
I didn’t know how heavy, how unfinished
The world would feel with you no longer in it.