Variations on Endings by Mom (Yes, I wrote you all a poem.)

Variations on Endings

On returning home and having The Feels

July 6, 2014

I.

It is raining again.

The rain becomes beginnings,

becomes washing away,

covering up,

tears;

becomes wondering if that was all a dream.

II.

I haven’t showered at home yet.

I am still dirty with Kenyon’s sweat.

III.

I’ve got my raincoat now.

When I go out, I won’t need an umbrella.

But I want to need one.

(III.

When I go out,

I’ll be always Under Our Umbrellas.)

IV.

Hugs can only last so long.

You can only clutch someone’s T-shirt so hard.

I am puzzled, sometimes

by the intensity of a hug. It can say so much.

Or, perhaps, so little?

V.

I hope these tears that we have shed will seep into the soil,

will flood the desert cracks in our skin and weave our stories together.

I hope new stories will grow.

(If your itch to write about us could be placed on a scale of one to desert,

be the fucking Sahara.)

VI.

Good conversation is the best sauce.             

VI.

Breakfast is so lonely.

VI.

I find myself telling knock-knock jokes to milk.

VII.

I wish I could have said this then:

Don’t walk so fast.

Don’t lose your tears yet.

Listen to the gravel under your feet.

Pretend that it’s Sunday afternoon and we have nowhere to be

VIII.

but here.

Lie on the grass with me one last time.

This is not an end, this is back to the beginning.

Tell me your secrets

– no, we have not just met, we have always known each other –

and where you want to be in ten years.

Walk to breakfast with me.

Do not talk about school.

Do not talk about love.

Talk about the things that have caused you to experience a Bright Case of Idiopathic

Craniofacial Erythema.

Talk about books.

Talk about God.

Give me a metaphor.

IX.

Saying goodbye to you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Saying hello was the easiest.

X.

It’s fucking impossible not to hurt anything.

XI.

It was fucking beautiful to be hurt by the scream of the interstate upon leaving that place.

XII.

It was a “privilege to have my heart broken by you”.

(Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

Okay.

Stop.)

XIII.

Finally I fell in love with people for reasons other than sadness.

XIV.

If you see me sad,

assume it is a metaphor for how your absence feels.

Assume everything is a metaphor.

Why not?

The bad things will become bad metaphors, and,

in turn,

we will laugh at them.

XV.

Don’t stop feeling this. Bleed your sorrows onto the page.

XVI.

Your song will be stuck in my head for days.

XVII.

I am perpetually baffled by our personhood,

by our ability to

make things happen.

We will make stories happen.

Our story will continue on phones and notebook paper,

the pages of Infinite Jest and the blog that is now my home page.

And, someday, the fucking New York Times Best Sellers.

XVIII.