Under Fire, a poem

Every minute, every day

I'm under fire.

The relentless assault of emotions doesn't stop for sleep,

doesn't stop for morning coffee,

doesn't stop at all.

The loss is so deep it has no bottom.

Not the loss of what was.

The loss of what would have been.

I should have booked the ticket to San Diego.

Should have helped you carry boxes into a new place,

should have sat with you over coffee

talking through which classes to take,

what you wanted to do with your life,

who you wanted to become.

We should have talked about fishing.

About love. About nothing in particular.

That's the part nobody tells you about grief...

it's not just the big moments you lose.

It's the nothing-in-particular ones. All of them.

We should have talked about what your kids would call me.

I was leaning toward Pop.

Doesn't matter now.

There's no one to call me anything.

I should have watched you become a father.

Instead I'm learning how to be

a father to no one.

I carry no guilt. That much I know.

There was nothing I could have done.

But I carry anger,

and it has nowhere to go,

so it just stays. Circling.

I love the people still standing next to me.

I love them so much it scares me...

except nothing scares me anymore.

The worst already happened.

What's left to fear.

I feel lost. I feel hollow.

Some days I can't find a reason to keep going,

and I go anyway.

I wake up. I move. I do the things.

For what, I don't know yet.

I keep saying I'll make room for joy.

For purpose. For fun.

Right now those are just words I say

to people who need to hear them.

I don't believe them yet.

Because they aren't true yet.

I'm still under fire.