For the Funeral to Come

I understand sadness because of you.
This is sadness.
Your hand, barely holding mine.
Your eyes tightly shut, hoarding
even your pain.
You make me feel guilty I never visit.
But when I do, you close your eyes
And say to me not a word.
I sit in front of you
Staring at eyes that never meet mine.
Eyes that have only ever looked inward
Even now, when they should be
watching for God.

This is our relationship.
Full of unnecessary silence even
in the last hour we may have together.
I have bad coffee in my cup,
A hole in the begging bowl of my heart.
And rage that refuses to fall from
my tired tired eyes.
A sudden storm roars awake outside
And shakes and pounds the windows
and smashes down the street
and terrifies the small people
that live huddled against the Light.
But we can't even make small talk
about that.

I have a picture of you on your knees,
with me riding you piggy back,
Your hair as wild as your smile.
Another picture of you looking at me proudly.
But I'm a baby being washed in a blue tub
with ugly yellow ducks swimming around.
Two pictures, but no real memories.
So many things you should have told me.
But you barely said a word.
And I remember everything.

All I have from you,
Is my sadness,
and my empty, open hand,
And my tired, tired eyes.