smile, rosemary

twenty

six months later

her

I never really liked cemeteries.

They always made me cry,

because I was walking on bones

and homes that the owners haven't

visited in a little while.

I always thought that the ghosts sat by their grave

and smiled whenever they got a visitor, 

so I always remembered to bring flowers and lay one on each grave in my way.

I often wonder if I'll end up in one of these, surrounded with wrinkled people

or if my mom will stand by me and cry in disappointment. If I kill myself, will she

be the only one there? If I die old, will I have someone who loves me by my side?

Often more than never, I used to wish that I was dead.

There are too many scars on my body,too many poisonous cells.

I have learned to accept that I can never love the way I want to beloved.

I am difficult and a puzzle that no one would really want to take the time to solve.

I have learned to give my love to all that is around me, but most importantly, to myself.

Oh, I love my tears.

And my scars.

And my stretch marks.

And my hands, they will never hold the world.

And my eyes, they are powerful.

And my hair, it's so short that I'm sometimes

mistaken for a ten year old boy's hair.

And my lips, they taste more sugar than salt, now.

And my heart, for it has lost more than it has loved,

but it fights for my love.

I sit on a bench, in front of a grave I visit twice

a month, now. A boy with no hair and beautiful eyes

sits next to me, holds my hand.

"Hi," he says. I kiss his cheek.

"Hi. How are you?"

"I'm great," he stares at the grave.

"Momma, I graduated." His tie and

ironed shirt make him look handsome.

He smiles and says, "I wish you were here."

I pat his hand, "Congrats, sunshine."

"Thanks, Rosemary."

No, I think, thank you, South, for being the

sunshine during a hurricane.

- - -

him

I've thought too many times about how

to say this, to her. She leaves today for some