Imagine This

Waiting

I woke up that morning, unsure of where I was until I remembered why we were here in your hometown. I ate my breakfast and continued with my morning routine, my thoughts wandering back and forth but always returning to you. I held back the tears when I heard of your passing, a strange feeling bubbling in my stomach the entire day. I remained snappy until I realized why I couldn't feel quite normal. I can't believe you aren't here. I know we weren't close but that doesn't mean I loved you any less. I smiled when I read your obituary and realized how much I didn't know about you but that I knew how you were. You had your faults, your fears, your passions, your obsessions, your drive, your love, and most importantly your family. You had a large family, most of whom I don't know. It was only me and the aunts and uncles and cousin and you and Gram and mom and dad. It's weird to think that my letters won't be addressed to you and Gram. It's weird that I most likely won't see that mansion log cabin that creaked when you walked past the stairs. I probably won't play the out of tune piano but I know you would have liked to hear it one more time. I won't get to feed your chickens or walk in your barn. I won't get to stare at the horse that kicked Jonah's nose and broke it, roaming around the yard between your house and the wrought iron gate. I won't get to hear the crunch of gravel up the driveway as we visited you from four hours away. I won't smell your pipe tobacco, or see your library study. I won't get to ask you about boxing or how you liked those fitness salons you pioneered in. I won't get to see you fall asleep as the rest of us tried to talk around the football buzz on the television and then pretend that you weren't asleep when you woke up and looked around at us. I won't hear you ask how basketball is going or talk about my future like you and Gram were so interested in. I won't hear your little cowboy boots heavily thunk down the hallway and the little white mustache twitched when you smiled. I won't see you swing open the creaky door to your hallway or smell the smoke coming from the guys' screened in porch. But neither will you.

I apply my makeup knowing that it'll wear off immediately when we enter your resting home and I sit here waiting for us to leave to bid you goodbye. I just wait.