Do you become softer in death_

I do think you’re sorry now.

I remember my mother said on your deathbed you apologized to her.

I assume it started then.

Your body was broken, you slipped through the cracks past the veil,

did you continue to loosen up?

Do you have to in order for the soul to ooze out?

Do you know your bastard son? I’m sure you’ve met.

We found out about him just 2 years ago.

5 years after he took his own life.

Did you see him take your lead?

A father he never knew.

Both elusive and cold to your respective daughters

destined to die tragically.

Were you there for the last 6 years of his life?

Did you know what you were going to say when he got to you?

Do you show him warmth he needed?

Does he show you the softness of forgiveness?

Do you become so light you rise so high you reach the stars?

My mom went to a psychic 2 years ago.

She said that lady talked to you.

Apparently you watch over me as I drive

because you know she’s especially afraid of the roads.

Is it your way of saying sorry? Even though I still grind my teeth about you?

Do you and your son catch up while having a hand on the back of my car

exchanging stories weaving me through traffic.

Maybe hell isn’t fiery punishment

but it’s receiving all the love and compassion in the world

yet you can’t truly show it to the ones who needed it from you

the most.

You give it to her through me.

You care for the unruly thing she loves most.

Yet you have to watch that thing say your name through gritted teeth.

Death makes you attentive.

If I ever have a close call,

if I slip off of icy roads into a ditch.

If I collide with another car

and you save my angry life,

will you wipe your brow,

and tell your son to hold his daughter close?

Closer than in life?

Will you shoo him off to make up for lost time?

And tell him despite the anger,

Despite the tears,

Despite the cursing of your name,

and the calamitous legacy you’re forced to watch take root,

he has to have a gentle hand to guide.

You show him how he’s become soft enough

to slip away from the calloused life he lead.

I don’t know how old the tree is but the roots are bad.

I think you can see that now from where you’re at.

I know you’re soft.

I know your smile now is kind. I know you loved me then.

I wouldn’t recognize your touch if you held me.

I remember your hands were stern.

Now I would slip past them.

I would still wriggle out from your hold.

I am still ungrateful for your undead help.

Look at the mess I have!

I can’t go on being your personal hell forever.

I’ll learn to accept rotten fruit from the tree.

I’ll carve off the grey and mushy flesh down to the seed.

I’ll put that seed in the ground and watch it grow.

I will nurture it.

I’ll exact the revenge of making you guide me through

choices you should have made.

I will be soft and gentle. Maybe I too will slip away if I’m not careful.

Perhaps rot is the path to softness.

My own tree will grow.

I’ll let the deer have the buds from the lower branches

and take my love to pick the ripe ones above

with a step ladder in the spring.