I have been waiting
in this dark garden a long time
for you to arrive.
First things first, I hope you lived well. What ever that may mean for you, now that you are dead. If you believe, as my father does, that nothing but rotting happens when you die, perhaps you now sit, satisfied in your lump of disintegration. Is that what you once believed-- your body becomes compost as soon as your last breath escapes, your essence simply dissipating into The Almighty Maybe?
Dead one, did you go first? Is there someone, or more than one, waiting and wondering, hoping that your energy is still here, hovering on the edges of our mere existence? Did you find that there are some things you take along, though your body, that gorgeous organic pod, is now quickly melting into the grass and ground? Did you have some ray of light in a silo of loss? You are not dreaming, you are here with me. I am here with you; we have never left.
Dearest Dead, I hope you had love. All sorts of love and lots of it -- sweet savory, and downright bitter. I hope that some one's smell and smile sent you out into the street at some point, weeping, screeching, sure that you would explode with desire. I hope, too, that on occasion, you sent another screaming outdoors for the same reasons. Did you laugh at the awkward moments? Did you find a way to say the difficult things? Life.
Jenkins said: "One is only alive for a short while and dead for a very long time."
And Neruda: "Loving is short, forgetting is so long."
Did you appreciate what is worthwhile, and not mire too long in the monkey shit? Anytime of the day or night, there is proof that someone somewhere is struggling.
Feel that bloody, gushing, pounding inside? My heart, I am in awe of you.
Let us walk away from these many darknesses and into the ceaseless shine: you have built a stunning foundation of memories from which to soar off into the great beyond.