as small as a world and as large as alone

It’s difficult and beautiful all at once. I don’t know where to begin to explain. Been working on a long multi-part poem for months.

The theme of one section is everyone prepared me for mourning to be horrible, almost cruel. And it can be. But it can be beautiful and filled with love. Nobody warned me of that.

I put on his clothes, my mourning clothes, with his rocks in my pocket, and his beard in a floating locket, every day, and every day I feel who he is sinking right into my bones, the way his DNA did when I was conceived. In some ways I’ve gotten to know him better in death and just before death, than in the rest of my 34 years.

And wherever I see ultimate love, I see my dad.

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