The Left of Right

I brought dead flowers to her grave because it seemed appropriate,
the alternative just felt like unnecessary boasting,

and on the dirt road,
I thought of all the nights we stayed awake as children,
part under our covers and part above,
looking out the window counting street lamps in exchange for sheep

you told me you wanted to be a writer,
and when I asked you why,
you told me because you wanted to make your mark

and when we got older,
and you wanted to be a writer, still,
and when I asked you why,
you told me because you never got to leave anything or anyone behind

and in my sadness,
and on this road,
I thought about that sentiment,
about always being left,
it was irking,
unsettling,
murky territory,

Just as I arrived at the cemetery gates,
the fog was settling in the way you liked it,
the way I remembered it when I would try aimlessly waving it out of your face,

and so I waved,
and for a second,
just a second,
I could see our colonial home before it bled into the mist of a Fata Morgana,

I felt it,
like an aftershock

it was me---