Sometimes, it just happens this way.
Fall slams on the trees,
the air chills, and I remember.
I remember running,
my feet pounding into the soft pavement,
the smell of my new leather jacket,
and catching up with her and running faster,
faces streamed in fearful tears.
The car, the lights, others,
nothing moving fast enough,
nothing tearing fast enough,
nothing ripping as fast as
the hole ripping through my heart.
—An abyss created.
I knew, you know.
I knew when I saw my mother’s face,
the nurses smoking on break,
the Father slipping quietly from your room,
You were leaving me,
Not then — but soon.
And I remember frantically
searching for every word you ever said,
every expression, every move, every breath,
Trying to fill the hole in my soul.
I held my own as you drew your last,
trying to save you.
Then you died.
And I remember,
the entirety having one soul,
one prayer for your soul.
Your fingers were still curled around momma’s hand
when we all had to say goodbye,
and she sobbed “Daddy” as we all looked
for who to comfort first and who could comfort us.
A collective heart broke.
And now I learned what only you could have taught me —
The abyss never closes, life goes on, love never ceases,
and sometimes —— it just happens this way.
