VERONICA LEE

Words are precious.
I'm glad you had them till the end
even though they barely etched
the air with whispers.

Your brother came.
In hindsight, you had
four more days.
Your machine provoking you
to breathe.
With its mask
crowding your face, 
you turned to me.
Your eyebrows lifting, 
connecting eye to eye
to assure communication 
in spite of the struggle.

"Tell him," you pained,
barely audible,
"Tell him what I want
him to do with my ashes."

The grief of writing this
three and a half years later 
seizes my chest and throat.
Yet those whispers pierce
time with conviction.

Your wish.
Your love.
The river.

Your brother's vow.
Our tears.
Your comfort at that assurance.

You would - once again -
grace the river you loved.

I see you now - 
recall the many hours 
you stood thigh-high
in your river.
Fishing pole in hand,
watching each ripple,
tuning into the bouncing
of the tip, the pull
of the line.
Your feet anchoring 
your meditation
within the current.

He was sent half
your ashes; his
duty was his honor.

Though the cabin 
had long been sold,
he still found his way 
back to the Trinity.
Back to the banks
that cradled your 
family for nearly 
five decades.

Every rock you turned
over, every branch you
broke, each fish you
caught and released,
or caught and ate, 
filled your melancholic
being with the truth
of your soul.

As I hoard my half of
your ashes - knowing
one day I will offer some
to our river here - 
I am beholden to 
know you and the Trinity
are forever merged.

It haunts me, entices me,
invites me in to form words, thoughts,
or squiggle along its edges.

I tore up my first diary, started 
somewhere in the awkward years, 
beyond cuteness and into self-consciousness.
Wide gap between my two front teeth,
unstylistic freckles, and hair that
was ratted by sleep and a lack
of brushing past the top layer.

I have no idea what was written
by that ten year old girl...
Crushes? Loneliness?
Shameful desires?
Nor do I remember the age I
was when I destroyed the
journal - cursed the contents
into oblivion.

My memories, like the 
diary, are torn into bits.
A corner of a page - earnestly
confessed by a child - appear
at the bottom of dusty boxes.
Boxes that have been
​carried through the
decades, but carefully
hidden behind necessary.

I wonder what that
wounded child shared?
Or is the angry teen that
buried the child's words
who needs compassion?

There is a lostness of it all.

In my trusting days, I
began journalling again,
vowing never to destroy - 
only hide.
Stacks of journals
covet the deepest of
my emotions - mostly pain.
In the potential safety of
my journals I have purged
the deep, the dark, the rage,
the triggers of life's dramas.

Each time pen blazes across
those pages, the words are
tinged with exhaustion and
too much-ness.
Yes, I may be too much,
but those moments reflect
the extremes.
Though I will concede that the
celebrations are savored 
in the here and now and 
rarely documented.

Journalling, poetry, 
articles, essays, dreams,
plans and to do's are 
ever-unfolding from
my fingertips.
The whiteness of the page
inviting me to share, to
think, to purge, to organize
with ink and lines, or 
even computer screen.
But that intentional binding
wrapped beautifully around
empty pages offers
a semblance of safety to
share from the darkness...
and probably the light,
but there's no crying 
need in the light.

The standing invitation...
with lines to keep me orderly
whether or not I know 
where I am going, where 
I end up, or my future self
approves of what's been
​written.