Pearson Airport

June 19, 2007 in grandfather, loss, poetry | 28 comments

Everyone is picking up their loved one and mine is dead.
Mine isn’t coming out.
Mine poisoned his blood through self-medication
three days before I got there to take care of him.
This is so unfair.
So here I am crying,
crying because he’s not here.
He could still be here.

I COULD OF CAME EARLIER.
I COULD OF STOPPED BEING SO SELFISH.
S
E
L
F
I
S
H

So I’ll never see him walk through those doors like I was used to all my life.
I only get to watch other people’s embraces.
I don’t get to participate.
I don’t get the privileged to help him
with his things while he insists that he can
carry it
himself.

Where are the hurricanes? Take me. Take me.

I want to see those gates to belong to us again.
I want your eyes wide open with excitement
not shut with shellac, while I hold you
crying tears all over your body, while
the heat is making the gel in your hair
melt.

Why?
You never did anything to your hair.
It was always cut perfect, all in your style
of the
do-it-yourself
hairstyle.
(dec 06)