January ushered in cooler
Washington weather
than the year before.
An icy breeze pushed
through my Army hoodie,
and goosebumps formed.
An unevenly lit hospital
with a softer bed than my own
was my second home.
After Lora died,
I’d been staying here for my
own good, the doctor said.
My fists bled as I swung
through windows.
This world took advantage
of me enough for a lifetime.
Maybe that’s why Lora died.
Part of me was too tired to live.
Making sense of death spins wheels
in circles over screaming anxiety.
I took to peace to find it
with my heart’s desire.
Lora died on the 1st,
and here it was, the 31st.
January had never been colder.
I’d never attended a funeral.
I swore I’d never go.
But Lora was a childhood friend,
and then a crush,
and then a lover,
and then a wife.
It was supposed to be for life.
When the pastor explained that
this vow was until death,
I didn’t know our marriage
would only last two years
before cancer took her away.
At her funeral, I stood before her.
Weak rays filter through
the stained glass windows,
beaming off Lora’s brown coffin.
My noodle knees knocked.
I thought of the time I asked Lora
to marry me.
I didn’t have the best ring.
Lora said yes, anyway.
I spoke words I’d penned before the service.
I said what I wanted people to hear.
What happens behind closed doors
remained in its place.
Like her hating her mother
and being jealous of her sister.
Attendees bowed over prayer hands
as the pastor gave words.
Kind words.
My eyes stung
as I blinked back tears,
making them fall faster.
The service concluded.
People gave their sympathies
and filtered out of the building.
I shoved my hands in my pockets
and saw the side of Lora
that I wanted to remember.
Workers nudged me to take
Lora to her final resting place.
It was then that I sobbed.
Until now, I prayed
that she’d wake up
that perhaps God made
a mistake and took Lora
too soon.
As the coffin closed,
I collapsed.
The pastor said
he had to shut off the lights.
I begged him to stay.
He told me to lockup when
I finished talking to God.
He left.
And I swore to God
taking Lora wasn’t fair.
I heard nothing more
than I’d hoped for.
I thanked God
for the time with Lora.
I hadn’t thanked God
for Lora until she died.
I don’t deserve her,
but I pray to see her again.
I smiled, knowing that I would.