A Black Lake, Just for You

Have you ever wondered?

What it would be like to stand there, on that cold, rainy day, and see your own funeral.

First, the people.

Who would come? Who would cry?

Who would speak of things that you would have never remembered saying?

Who spoke of things you never forgot?

And they would all wear black; all get into black, just for you.

And when the tumbling thunders of a wrathful One roll in,

And when the diminutive lull of the funeral procession come rippling down the river,

And when all is said, all is done.

What remains?

Tears? Rocks? Dirt?

Or an untapped chance?

When will I die? Will it be before I see any happiness? Or after I see all that can connive?

And I hope that you will be standing in the crowd with

A black scarf, in your black cloth, now, and for the first time, imperfect, wet, wrinkled, stained with salty tear.

And will bring you emotion you had never felt before?

I can see it now.

You were trekking from anywhere to everywhere.

And you come, with struggle, to say one last goodbye.

One last chance.

One chance unused.

I would hope that I’ve brought you happiness, love, peace, and beneficial passion.

I would hope you’d shed a single tear, containing the fire of our love.

My love.

Did it never cross your thoughts?

That one day, when the wind whips and the sky roars, they’ll be a black lake of cloth and tear.

It’ll be in the middle of suburbia, where moms and child go to soccer, and husband finishes at 5, only to find no food in the fridge.

And the storm will carry you to sadness.

To profound compassion that you will never feel again.

Accept my love.

Just as you had not for the past 100 years.

And will not for at least 1000 more.

Had it ever occurred to you?

That one day.

In the midst of life, mundane and spectacular,

There will be a black lake, just for you.