And now it’s December [by Courtney Lynn]
And strangers’ texts flood my phone: I’m thinking of him. I’m thinking of you. I know today is hard. I know he’s happy. I hope you’re doing well. I love you.
My dad.
He died on the third day of a month crowded with reasons to text.
This is December:
My dad’s death
My aunt’s birthday
My uncle’s birthday
Christmas
New Year’s Eve
My aunt and uncle have birthdays days apart
As if their mom had planned it years apart
Competitive siblings forced to share a month
With each other and with Christmas
Exactly one week later.
My holidays are splintered anyway
It used to go without saying that Christmas was at grandma’s
Now, every other year
Rock
Paper
Scissors
The Englunds
Or the Spillers
I’ll probably text my family this year: Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday. Merry Christmas.
That magical time before the year comes to a close:
New Years Eve!
I haven’t partied in years.
I fall asleep before midnight
Wake up to toast,
And to text: Happy New Year. Clink.
Fall back out until January.
And now in January
I have my birthday to look forward to.
But not just mine
It’s still crowded:
My birthday.
My aunt’s birthday
The older one, who has learned to share the month with me.
My dad’s birthday.
Two days before mine is
When strangers’ texts come in:
Thinking of you. I love you. I hope you are well. He’s in my heart. I know he’s thinking of you. God bless.
And on my birthday, virtual silence.
I have to laugh.
My dad.
He died the year that I was diagnosed with what would kill him.
That’s poetry enough, isn’t it?