It was a suicide.
Two weeks have passed.
“The funeral is today.
Or. Not a funeral. A celebration of life.”
Matter-of-fact voice.
How many times had intention
shown him this path?
That prescription the only protection
against this road.
“Would you like me to come with you?”
Translation:
Let me watch you in this crowd.
See if I can read your mind.
“No. I’m going to stand. It’ll be crowded.”
Did he know,
so many people would want to be there?
Did he know,
so many people cared?
Or was he counting on them,
covering for him when
he wasn’t there?
Two paths forking off this road,
wives watching the journey,
or buried by it.
Shawn L. Bird 