I wish you goodbye my dear

perhaps you thought you had it figured out

until the prospect of glory shone before your eyes

and you began to rip yourself to pieces

building a staircase to approval you were desperate to climb

I wish you happiness and health

I wish you good fortune and understanding of yourself

but most of all

I wish myself care and attention from those who truly matter

I wish better than your affection's tatters

I wish you good riddance love

In a Poem

It's easy to get

Going

I'll get back

to the Title

in a Moment

A poem is Short

Unless it's the Iliad,

The odyssey is short

Like when I

got a car, crashed

and Totaled it

For an Instant

In hand, Bill,

I had... a Title

She checked the time.

Checked her phone.

Checked the door.

Checked her reflection.

He’s not late.

He’s not late.

He’s not—

coming?

Stop.

That’s not fair.

Be fair.

You said you'd try.

He wanted sushi.

You picked Italian.

Like the rehearsal night—

the last thing he ate.

It’s not a test.

It’s not betrayal.

It’s just dinner.

Just—

She touched the napkin.

Her ring finger twitched.

Don’t think of rings.

Don’t think of ash.

He said we could wait.

He said stay home.

He said not today.

She said

Hawaii.

No weather warnings.

No second thoughts.

No life vests.

No—

wedding.

The wine list blurred.

Waves on white paper.

She didn’t drink anymore.

She did.

After.

What if he’s kind?

What if he’s dull?

What if he dies too—

and it’s her fault

again?

She practiced hello.

Practiced her laugh.

Practiced surviving.

Didn’t

practice this.

She almost left.

She almost stayed.

She almost

believed.

He’s late.

He’s not late.

He’s not—

Hi.

Sorry—traffic.

She blinked.

Breathed.

Smiled.

It’s okay.

I just got here.

Part One: Science Friction

Friction can be tricky

if not applied correctly.

None -

creates a slipping hazard on ice.

A little -

causes a blister on your heel.

Too much -

results in the collapse of a relationship.

But just enough -

will ignite a fire

(outdoors to toast a marshmallow

or in your soul to propel you forward).

Part Two: What's In This Box?

I happened upon a box in my attic.

One I must have packed years ago.

It was covered with dust

and had a faded label declaring:

FULL OF DARKNESS.

I wonder why I felt compelled

to keep something so ominous

or how I had forgotten it was there.

Curious as to what it contained,

I lifted the lid just enough to peek inside.

And was confronted with all my previous failures

that I had kept for way too long.

It wasn’t until I got the courage

to turn the box upside down,

that I could release the past’s darkness,

which spilled onto the floor and dissipated in the light.

It was at this moment that my life became brighter.

Now the box has a fresh label:

FULL OF HOPE.

I drive back home

with the radio on,

except it’s no longer my home.

Just a graveyard of memories.

I’m driving back for your funeral, Nan.

I’ve written a couple of books,

and so I’ve been asked to write and read your eulogy

at the little church

on that thin stretch of gravel road

where you used to take me as a child.

I’m the writer of the family now,

my father says.

We have a little bit of time before the funeral,

so I decide to show my kids

where their dad lived when he was growing up.

I show them my high school,

Braxton’s house right next to it,

and the park where I had my first kiss.

We turn right

and then left

and right again

before a two-story house

with a red steel roof

stands just like it did

all those years ago,

except now the tiny shrub

that we planted in the front yard

is as tall as the house.

I look into the window

where my bedroom was.

How many nights

I stared outside of it.

I can almost see my younger self

looking out.

Opening the blinds

just a hair

with my thumb and forefinger,

watching my dad walk to work

in the early morning fog.

But now I’m the dad,

and the kids are in the backseat.

I turn around,

and they don’t seem to care,

but that’s alright.

They’re too young

to care about the past.

Their past is non-existent,

which is why they’re so good

at living in the moment.

Up the street we go

and turn to the gyrel—

the skatepark where I spent

my summer days

shooting hoops,

hoping that all the answers

were inside of that metal rim.

I can see Pat,

and Jake,

and Spencer,

and Fraser,

and Nate,

and Braxton

all playing their hearts out.

I can see us

sitting on the thin stretch of grass

between the fence

and the asphalt.

We’re talking.

We’re talking about girls,

and movies,

and sports.

We’re walking to the theatre

to watch a movie—

not because we know what’s playing,

but because the night is young,

and so are we.

And even if the movie is garbage,

we’ll be there together,

laughing,

and knowing

that tomorrow

is just as hopeful

as today.

We keep driving down Aaron Street,

and an old Toyota Corolla drives by

and I can see Zach inside of it.

He just got his license,

and he asks me if I want to go for a drive.

I say, hell yeah,

and we drive through town.

I ask him to put on some music,

and all he has

is a cassette

of Madonna’s Greatest Hits.

We laugh

and put it on,

and before we know it,

we’re singing Like a Prayer

with the windows rolled down—

the old windows

that you needed to crank

with all your might.

I tell my kids

and my wife

about these memories.

My wife smiles

and the kids

just want to get out of the car.

I tell them soon.

Just a few more minutes

down memory lane,

because I’m sure

that after the funeral,

I won’t be coming back.

We cross the Van Horne Bridge,

and again I’m a teenager.

I’m 16 years old

and I’ve just finished getting

twelve stitches

above my left eye.

I’m drugged up

and holding a massive teddy bear.

I’m going to see my girlfriend

because I’m late for our date.

There’s a soft snow falling

and my head is ringing,

but she’s the first real girlfriend

I’ve ever had,

and so I need to see her.

I walk and walk and walk

and finally ring on her doorbell.

Sweaty,

out of breath,

and woozy from the painkillers.

She opens the door,

and I smile crookedly

before handing her the teddy bear.

She begins to cry

and wraps her arms around me so tight

that I can barely breathe.

She kisses me,

and my God,

to be wanted that badly

is a gift.

I look over at my wife,

and remember

when she used to do the same.

Finally,

we turn around

and head to the countryside—

to the little country church

with the small gravel parking lot.

There are cars lined up on either side,

and the wind is beginning to pick up.

My hands are clammy,

and my heart is racing

with reckless abandon,

because I’m scared

to read the eulogy,

and I’m scared

at the prospect

of looking at the small dirt hole

with flowers in it

and knowing that it’s true.

She’s gone.

So is my aunt,

and my grandfather.

They’re reunited.

My father and my uncle

are now a family of two.

Once a family of five—

they’re all that’s left.

And I don’t know what to say to them.

I’ve never known,

even during the best of days.

The pastor prays for my Nan

and then asks me to come up

and read the eulogy.

I’m frightened

and didn’t expect to be called upon so quickly.

My hands are shaking

and my voice cracks a couple of times

in the beginning.

But eventually,

I get my groove

and I read stories

that make my family laugh

and even cry.

I tell them about the flowers

in the garden centre,

and I tell them

about midnight snacks.

How I loved her pork chops so much

that as a kid

I asked for them on New Year’s Eve

when everyone was in bed.

Just her and I

eating pork chops

at the dining table

as the rest of the world went to sleep.

Afterwards,

we go to the firehall,

where we eat egg salad sandwiches

and homemade cookies

and watch a photo gallery of pictures

of her and my grandfather,

and my father and uncle and aunt—

all young and happy and healthy.

Their whole lives ahead of them.

My father is quiet,

trying to joke away the pain,

but it’s hard—

I can see it in his eyes

how hard it is.

I speak with relatives,

and then it’s time to leave.

On the drive back,

I’m quiet.

My wife doesn’t know what to say,

just like I didn’t know what to say.

As the mountains fade

in the rearview mirror,

there’s a moment

where I’m sad,

and I think

I might just break down and cry.

But I realize

that the town that I loved,

and that molded me,

needed to hurt me.

It needed to hurt me

so that I could know

what it feels like

when it happens to my kids.

When life turns upside down on them,

I’ll know.

And I’ll tell them

about the little black box of pain.

The one that you think is a curse,

but is actually a gift.

Because like my Nan always said—

“Flowers can’t grow without a little rain.”

Inanimate things

are dependent upon us

to have memory.

Socks know it’s their job,

whenever they’re in the dryer,

to ditch their partner.

The end table leg

cannot recall what it did

to deserve your kicks.

The stove worries that

you will doubt you turned it off

once you are airborne.

Car keys remember

to be inconspicuous

when you’re running late.

The torn plastic bag

holding your carton of eggs

hid its flaw in shame.

The roll of TP

forgot to mention it’s low.

But you’ll soon find out.

It’s only when we

project experiences

that stuff comes alive.

Gem stones in the palm of my hand,leaves me wanting more.

More of the jagged edges,to shape and contort.

Contort and contain the broken pieces that fall into shape.

Shape-shifting into diadems that sparkle on crimson crests.

Crests weaving into floral designs that mount on wings.

Wings that soar through dark clouds into opulent sunlight.

I'd never seen anyone outside the house, but it always looked like I'd just missed them. A pile of recently delivered bark chips sat in the driveway next to the car that was forever standing watch in front of the garage. A ladder splayed open among some tall shrubs, or maybe short trees. I wasn't sure which. The front porch, deliciously cluttered with shiny glass bowls, and animal figurines reminded me of Grandma's house; warm, inviting, and safe. I felt like I could trust them, whoever the residents were. Around the corner, an overturned wheelbarrow was becoming one with the strip of nature left between the sidewalk and the street. Garden pathways wound around the luscious corridors of untended decorative plants. Everything from butterfly bushes to bleeding hearts melding together as the years continued to slip by.

As I marveled at the cacophony of it all, I realized my observations must still fall short. We have this ability to condense each leaf into a branch, and each branch into a tree, until it feels like the universe only holds a few billion big things instead of an amount of small things so incomprehensible that your mind would explode trying to contain it all. What untold wonders lie in the dirt beneath the green? How many bugs worked the soil, and maintained the plants while the owners of the house remained a mystery? What birds had landed here, and how many squirrels quarreled with them over food? The blades of grass stood tall yet unquantifiable, like the many hairs on my head, my arms, my legs; begging me to wonder how all of this infinity could come to exist in what couldn’t be more than a quarter acre.

Ohm ohm What are you AT MAN?

Meditating.

Why?

It helps me resist any thought that comes to my mind that shouldn't be there.

Does it work?

It does work if I practice every day?

So persistence pays off?

Yeah.

I sit here conducting my thoughts.

I direct my thoughts through my internal filter to block any bad thoughts that come to mind.

What do you do with the good thoughts?

I embrace them and hold on to them,while bad thoughts rush through my mind.

Its like all my thoughts are rushing to a waterfall.

So I retain all the good words while building a mindful barrier.

So why do you shout?

I thought meditation was suppose to be peaceful?

You try sitting in this position for an hour!

Is it good for your memory?

In a weird way.

What do you mean?

I tend to get flashbacks of my day,and the funny thing is that when I'm not comfortable in this position,I tend to get negative thoughts.

So persistence in your discipline,strengthens your body and your mind?

Yeah,the negative thoughts are dwindling.

Is YOGA and acronym for something?

I know you're interested in what I'm doing.

But could you please wait til I'm finished my session!!!

YOU'RE OVERLY GALLING AUM!!!