conversations with grief: july 24, 2022

I offer her a cup of coffee.
It’s cloudy outside and she tells me about the ring on her right index finger.
I only have five minutes left, but
I don’t rush her.

a tear falls across her cheek.

we both pretend we don’t notice as she hands me a Ziploc bag,
a bagel with strawberry cream cheese.

  Your favourite.
she whispers.

I love you.
I respond.

  I love you, now go.
she waves from the top step of her porch
soft permission to leave, again.

  goodbye.
I whisper

as if I can see the future,
see to this early mo(u)rning in July
see where I sit on a rock overlooking frame lake
grief, silently beside me,
cradling me.

it’s raining outside and pools of water form in my eyes.

we watch, grief and I,
as all the people I’ve ever loved father on the other side of the grey water

they’re so far away

I whisper.

it’s you that’s far. they’re all together.

grief responds.

can they hear me?

I ask.
not even if you wail.

grief says sharply.
but still,
I whisper

I love you

and this time,
here is no response.