The urn holding your ashes
is in the closet with a few of your
favorite things.
Actually it isn’t an urn,
never could see the reason for one,
you’re still in what I received you in.

People will talk.
He didn’t even buy an urn.
He didn’t think enough of her
to even buy a . . .

Let them talk, squawk, shriek,
I just don’t care.
Somehow you not being in an urn
symbolizes who you were.
A woman from Mississippi
who carried a lot of hate,
kept a lot of secrets from me.

When I found them out
I could not understand how you could
have lived with me all those years
and not tell me what was
closest to your heart.
Especially when I was blubbering
all my secrets to you!

We did finally get one thing
straight between us.
You wasn’t in love with me.
Eh . . . I didn’t love you.
We admitted that to each other
that day sitting at the dinette.
For some reason our confessions
made life a little easier
for the both of us.

If you were here, if you could come back,
we’d have a lot to talk about. Or,
if you’d like we could check out a
nearby lounge. I remember how
you liked your blended whiskey and
water. Whatever you’d like we’d do.

Are you aware?
Can you tell what is happening here
with me? I don’t believe in Heaven,
but you always said you did.
If there is a Heaven,
and even though you said you believed,
I somehow doubt you are there.
You wasn’t an honest person,
among other things. Do you remember
telling me, “Your time is coming?” You so
hated you aged worse than I did.

I remember the night you died vividly.
Your daughter was there.
So was one of your nieces.
The pretty one.
The one I have always liked.
You’ll never believe what she did
that night.

©October 26, 2012 / Jerry Pat Bolton