Your Turn is Coming

If this turns off anyone, I didn't write it for that reason, this is just the way it was.


The urn holding your ashes
in the closet with a few of your
favorite things.
Actually it isn't an urn,
never could see the reason for one,
you're still in what I received you in.

People will talk.
He didn't buy an urn.
He didn't think enough of her
to even buy a . . .

Let them talk, squawk, shriek,
I just don't care.
Somehow you not being in a urn
symbolizes who you were.
A woman from Mississippi
who carried a lot of hate,
kept from me a lot of secrets.

When I found them out
I couldn't understand how you could
live with me all those years
and not tell me what was
closet to your heart.
Especially when I was blubbering
ALL OF MY SECRETS TO YOU!

We did finally get one thing
straight between us.
You didn't love me.
Neither did I love you.
Still, we both needed the other.
Not complicated.
We admitted that also as we sat at the dinette.
For some reason our confessions
made life a little easier
for both of us.

If you were here, if you could come back,
we'd have a lot to talk about. Or,
if you'd like we could check out a
nearby lounge. I remember how
you liked your blended whiskey and
water. Whatever you'd like we'd do.

Are you aware?
Can you tell what is happening here
with me? I don't believe in Heaven,
but you always said you did.
If there is a Heaven,
and even though you said you believed,
I somehow doubt you are there,
being the dishonest person you were,
among other things. Do you remember
telling me, "Your turn's coming?" You
hated that you aged worse than I did.

I remember the night you died vividly.
Your daughter was there.
So was one of your nieces.
The pretty one.
You know who I'm talking about.
You'll never believe what she did to me
the night you died.

©October 26, 2012 / Jerry Pat Bolton