By Crystal Galvan
The sun died
when I knew you would be gone.
Their prayers were not enough to keep you with me.
My family tree would be so beautiful
without this sickness. Like the rust that ate our old magnolias.
Spreading from one to another. Consuming them all and turning them gray.
I don’t care that they hate me
for leaving them to grieve alone.
I care that you asked for me and I was too cowardly to be there.
I tell myself that funerals are for the living.
Black velvet words spoken by a vicar who never really knew you.
Why would I want them?
I said I was ill,
flu season and all.
I couldn’t be at your bed, and I couldn’t be at your casket.
But the real reason I didn’t go
I didn’t want to see what it did to you.
I didn’t want to see your mangled roots and dead leaves.
My father’s gardenia bush is rotting.
My mother’s iris bed is wilting.
I didn’t see that rotted pine box of yours.
What will they look like when they follow you?
I weep – as I am
still a sapling, but this sickness stalks me.
Perhaps I will follow you
Crystal Galvan is a writer based in the Brazos Valley. You can follow her on Instagram @crys.exe
