A Grave Site with No Headstone
I stare out the windshield,
droplets collect fast
but I can choose
when wiper blades pass.
I wish I could do the same.
To be able to wash droplets
away, even on the rainiest of days,
with a flick of the wrist.
I am left with misty
versions of you. A place you grabbed
my hand, and led me as a little boy.
Now, I do the same. I reached inside
my chest, ripped out that same boy
and placed him on the seat beside me.
I talked to him for a good hour,
about how Tinkerbell was real,
sharks can be friendly but dangerous,
and why it’s okay to stare straight
into the sunlight sometimes.
Then I grabbed his hand tight
stuffed him deep in my rib cage,
and kept driving.
Because for one second I found out
why you aren’t here anymore.
You just wanted to show me,
my wiper blades