Alysse, he's dead

       I had every intention of writing out the worst day of my life, the day my brother died. But I can't. I am tired, and the thought completely exhausts me. It isn't that I am so against reliving that day, I do that everyday, but it is just that I can't at this moment. In 10 minutes, it will be the fourth year death day anniversary. It will be a day that will forever be engraved in the recesses of my mind. I will never be able to think of anything else on this day than the moment I screamed in the phone, "Just tell me! Is he dead!" Her response..."Yes." 
        It was a breathless, hopeless, lifeless, shattering moment. And I hate it. I still hate that moment. Granted, I am healing from that moment, but I don't think I will ever reconcile with it. I will never be able to understand what happened from one moment--as I was taking care of my client--till the next as I am screaming in the phone. I can't. 
        So, instead, I will share with you the poems that he and I exchanged. His was written to me because I told him he had never written a poem, and it is the greatest gift anyone has ever bestowed upon me. Sadly, I never wrote one for him while he walked this earth, but I gave it to him none-the-less.

Sister

"Will you take a friend, good sir?

A companion? Confidante?"

"Will you take a playmate, then?

Poker buddy? Chess opponent?"

"No? How about a business partner?

Associate? Accomplice?"

"A pal?

Drinking chum? Side kick?"

"You wish a debate fellow?"

"Philosopher?"

"Dreamer?"

I give up! What do you need?"

"Nothing, for I have a sister."

-Andrew Scott Dever

Sounds of Finality

She beats and beats and beats

her wings, her powerful wings.

Harder she beats

to fly…only to fall.

Only to fail.

Life, the wind,

works against her.

Instead of beneath

it pushes down.

Down and down and down--

until her wings are deemed useless.

She named them--

her wings:

Faith and Hope.

And she is Love.

One then the other

in tandem they serve Love well,

‘til now.

‘Til the moment he left her.

She is love because he loved her.

She is an angel because he was her saint.

His words were her thoughts.

His life--her wind,

‘til now.

‘Til the moment he left her.

Alone.

She has become transition;

in constant state of flux.

Her delight is now her delirium.

The wing, Faith, is now doubt.

The wing, Hope, is despair.

Love is indifferent.

So reality is black,

or gray…she can’t tell.

Perhaps nothing matters anymore.

It is being dead or being alive,

and it doesn’t matter.

It all seems non-existent to her.

“For how long, Time”?!

tick, tick, tick…

“For how long?”

And in her desperation--

she is quietly screaming

“…too long”!

She wakes--she walks--she sleeps.

She wakes--she walks--she sleeps.

She is repetition,

and it is killing her.

She is alone,

or perhaps just without him--

which is even worse.

So she hunts for him.

For her wind, her life, her saint,

she chases what was

and finds his tomb.

Guarded by another angel,

a stone replication of herself,

a constant reminder of her mortality.

Oh, to battle the perfect--

with her imperfect self.

To wage war with stone…against flesh;

constancy against fickleness

is to lose.

Then…“To what end?”

To forfeit.

He is watched with perfect grace,

and she has become his finite haunter.

So she sighs the final sound of defeat,

the sound of finality…

and she forfeits.

Thus she kneels--

she lays it down:

her doubt, her despair, her indifference.

She kisses him,

one last time--

blessing him with her broken tears,

and prays that he sleep with the angels

as she rises with the saints.

-Alysse Suzanne Dever