Today, I wept for the sky.
For the way it arched towards me like its body was broken.
The forgotten shades of blue hung wet and wilted on the peaks of trees.
It was scarred, a purple gash through the seams.
It touched me with its heavy breath.
I lie among the ruins of the city.
The war is over but I will not leave.
I walk among the sentinels, the shrines.
I have no candles so I let the colder sun paint the stones with fire.
I am lonely and my body is numb.
I remember my father’s aftershave balancing on the tip of the doorframe.
It would stay for weeks after he’d gone.
I would wake in the freshness of the day and for a second, I would believe his body moved through the house.
I would listen closely.
But there were no footfalls and the vision would fade.
I remember my brother.
His protective posture and his tired eyes.
He would walk among his art and sing of the shipwrecked, sea foam lovers.
I felt his distance most when I stood by him, his body reaching closer to the sun than mine ever could.
But my mother has the only face I will never forget.
I remember watching her pray in the quiet age of the church.
The smell was of musty coats and doors too long closed.
She barely swayed, though the stillness echoed.
History has cried deeply, she whispered, and the past is steeped in tears.
But do not weep for those who’ve gone.
After Jesus, no love can be a tragedy.
I lie among the ruins.
I think of this moment often.