I came across an August sky until I felt the ground that holds you. Amsterdam was raining when I landed. A taste of sea. I knew all the paths, streets, windows, walls, and tunnels. The church bells told me.
It’s taken me awhile to ask what’s needed to be asked, to turn our things to ash. But I always return.
I always seem to come back to your garden, your tomb, your kitchen floor.
I waited, like you told me, for the crows to speak; instead, the old caretaker in wooden shoes fired up his weed-eater.
I chased him until he stopped. And from behind the stone walls, he watched me. Like I was crazy. Loose.
I’ve been wondering why we are here? Me. You. Life and death scribbled on our bodies, like these stones.
When I came home from school you were gone. Never got to ask how your leaving got built, about the walls you tunneled under, swung your legs over, and then running running until you became sky.
These cedar hedges can’t hold back the smell of farms or the warm four o’clock winds.
He was vacuuming that day. And I knew you were gone. He never looked up again. Your stone is cut with words that fly out of my hands stirring up wounds with your wooden spoon until I can’t even taste them anymore. You tied this thread – a butcher’s string – around my wrist: I could hear your breath when you made the knot.
“May the rest she missed on life’s journey…”
The knot is still tied, but it’s still not right is it? I always spelled your name with a “y”
Listen close: I will find our way to ash.