Memorial day brings out a crazy load of demons piling themselves like wiry soldiers in my mind. The night before a riot breaks out – right before my doorstep and I stumble to reach for a group of small children in the middle of an ugly cross fire. I can’t help but think death has made a soldier out of me, worse because I have no real image of his lifeless body sometimes I wish in darker moments that I did. That I’d had the guts to face him unmoving, and solid – his once full of light and life body stiff in front of me – but all I can remember is the coffin and the flag. The sound of another lover telling me he wad dead and the way my skin felt in that long sleeve black dress, how I wanted to crumble on the dirt when the coffin shrunk on the ground of snow. I can see myself from afar like a broken down doll, bodies holding me up – his mother walking towards me her arms all wide to take me in. This ache never goes away it has simply found a way to survive inside of what feels like a tomb.
Is it wrong to wish it was me instead of him? Could my life have substituted his own? He was so much better than me – at everything.