this was the place where he thought he'd write his masterpiece,
standing in front of a wall where his father's ashes rested.
the words didn't flow like he wanted them to.
instead, tears streamed down his face, wiped off by his trembling hand.
if only tears could be read,
his novel would already be completed.
there's a saying someone told him to help ease his pain,
"it gets better with time."
it doesn't.
he once believed that the void in his heart could be filled.
filled with the satisfaction of a job that paid well,
the love of a beautiful woman
or God.
but those ideas were only temporary fixes,
that slowly disappeared like the sun setting in the horizon,
and once again he was left feeling alone.
the more he tried to forget,
the more he tried to ignore,
the void only grew bigger, more painful.
as he stood there looking for the words to write he took in a deep breath and looked around.
he wondered how busy a cemetery really gets and what is the proper dress attire.
the air was wet on his skin and the sun burned his face.
silence.
and for no reason,
with no real significant moment,
it came to him.
death wasn't about forgetting or moving on
because no matter what he did,
that void was still that drunk he didn't want at a party.
that void was still that traffic he didn't want to sit in.
that void was still that ex-girlfriend he didn't want to accidentally bump into.
it will always still be, no matter what.
filled with the satisfaction of a job that paid well,
the love of a beautiful woman
or God.
but those ideas were only temporary fixes,
that slowly disappeared like the sun setting in the horizon,
and once again he was left feeling alone.
the more he tried to forget,
the more he tried to ignore,
the void only grew bigger, more painful.
as he stood there looking for the words to write he took in a deep breath and looked around.
he wondered how busy a cemetery really gets and what is the proper dress attire.
the air was wet on his skin and the sun burned his face.
silence.
and for no reason,
with no real significant moment,
it came to him.
death wasn't about forgetting or moving on
because no matter what he did,
that void was still that drunk he didn't want at a party.
that void was still that traffic he didn't want to sit in.
that void was still that ex-girlfriend he didn't want to accidentally bump into.
it will always still be, no matter what.
death is about welcoming that void into his life as if it was his own flesh and blood.
looking deep into the darkness and saying, "hi"
because the more he lets it know it's there,
the more it loses interest in him,
like a child does with an old toy.
he stands in front of the plaque that reads "Peter J. McCauley."
his chest feels lighter,
his body adjusting to the lack of weight holding it down.
after years he's found some peace with his father's death,
no longer putting himself on trial for a crime he didn't commit.
he writes down on a piece of paper three words his father would say to him as a child,
tucks it behind the flowers that guards his ashes and says,
"i love you Dad."
looking deep into the darkness and saying, "hi"
because the more he lets it know it's there,
the more it loses interest in him,
like a child does with an old toy.
he stands in front of the plaque that reads "Peter J. McCauley."
his chest feels lighter,
his body adjusting to the lack of weight holding it down.
after years he's found some peace with his father's death,
no longer putting himself on trial for a crime he didn't commit.
he writes down on a piece of paper three words his father would say to him as a child,
tucks it behind the flowers that guards his ashes and says,
"i love you Dad."
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