Permission Granted

A birthday wish whispered – If this world weighs too heavy on that which remains, leave. Promise, it will be fine. Your blind eyes see through my comfortable sweater, the fuzzy one worn down to remember warmth. Furious, I could scream. It had always been my favorite: Always green. Forgiving. A perfect fit. Meanwhile, get to the heart of it: The promise reverberates in spaces. Do you get it? Enough of this matter! Can you hear me? You died the next morning at 6:04 AM in the blizzard, of January 23, 2005. I followed a snowplow down an unclear highway, on Sunday in Dedham, Massachusetts, hoping the next skid won’t send me too near to you. Too late, and arriving to crumbling knees the following considerations: How many demented trespasses; how many cognizant? You are still just a shell of the man, imposing, virile, mad. Your outline singes me, again and again. Burning fear came before pity. But, perhaps more importantly, you were ever loved.