Third Anniversary

ASK ME TOMORROW

I don’t believe in God
Watching over us
Picking and choosing
Judging, condemning
Hearing and answering
It’s Tuesday
Ask me tomorrow
After the dirt settles
Back in the grave
And the flowers bloom
Around the stone
Carved with the names
Of all I loved
Who left saying
Only God knows
Why us
Why me
There is no God
On Tuesdays
Just a procession of
Flagged cars
And a gaping hole
So hungry
With an almighty appetite
It swallows you whole
And Monday’s God with you
So ask me tomorrow
If I remember His name

Today is the third anniversary of my last conversation with my dad before he died. It’s the day he last laughed with us, joking with the nurse from hospice who had come to interview him, arranging his transfer from the hospital. I didn’t know that he would be dead two days later. I didn’t know on that Sunday that I needed to say good-bye. I didn’t know that Monday would be his last day, that he would be in and out of consciousness, not making much sense, but still acknowledging all his children as we gathered. I didn’t know that early Tuesday morning as I was racing to get to the hospice he was already gone. Today is the third anniversary not of when I lost my dad, but of when I last had him.

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