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The No I Never Heard
I have too much to say and nothing to say at all
You are gone and the saying doesn't change that
Some people may picture you at a bus stop or park bench
Waiting, to be reunited with your wife, your granddaughter, your mother
Or my sister and I
That is false poetry, words made up to soothe where soothing cannot heal
And healing cannot hope and hoping chafes like the skin around my nose
After the third box of tissues on Halloween morning
Elizabeth was dressed as a ladybug but you already knew
The last picture of you and her was from Babcie's house two days before,
Colleen dressed her up to see her cousins, you and mom stopped by
And I stayed home, sick, not wanting to infect the little ones
The night you died I called to check on you, something I had never done before
Mom called me at work to say you went to the ER the night before, sore throat
She tried to put you on the phone (which she had never done before)
And of course you couldn't talk, or didn't want to,
Either way, I never even heard your voice in the background
Saying no
Four hours later the phone rang, it was mom, is Rich with you?
"Rich!" He was sleeping on the couch so I could rest
He's gone, my mom said, your father's gone, he died
"What do you mean?" He had a sore throat, he was 57 years old, surely I
Was still asleep and this was all a nightmare that Rich would wake me from,
Angry, because I was kicking him in my sleep
There is no park bench, but I wish there was a spirit shoppe,
A dark, quiet place with filled with amber glass jars and unspoken hope
A place where I could barter my anger and sorrow for a jar containing a sound
The sound of your voice in the background saying no
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