by Brandy Clark
Here we are, in the middle of a garden of stone: plaques, tombstones, angels with faces
worn down like the smooth rocks of a riverbed. Here we are, in the middle of a dump of
bones: coffins occupied by skeletons crumbled to dust, dust I could gather and sift through
I want to say something sincere in its sincerity, something touching, say I hope you’re in
heaven or wherever people go once they lose the eternal game of Red Rover, and go over
the line from voiced to voiceless, from living to dead. I want to collapse under weighted grief.
But I can’t.
So this is the final you and me, our final conversation, even if it’s a bit one-sided: I wish we
got along, spent more time together other than the few family reunions we were makeshift
father and daughter–for the benefit of relatives only seen once a year.
An offering of carnations: cheap, silk things retrieved from a dollar store bargain bin,
will decorate the top of your tombstone. They are a symbol of my pseudosympathy. I never
wished you dead, though I don’t care that you’re gone.