Mar 292015

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

my fingers.


 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.

 Have these.

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.