I think you learned to cry the same way other people learn to play chopsticks on the piano
or how they learn to ride a bicycle
or play bridge
or spades or
(go) fish.

I think you created a battle-plan to save your-
self, you built a bunker in your mind and furnished it with a blast-proof door
and double-thick walls
and filtered air and
(central) heat.

I think you've played a great game, so far,
considering the crappy hand you were dealt:
I wonder if I could have done as well
or smiled as much
or seen as clearly or
(ever) loved.

I know I'm proud of what you've managed, what you've accomplished and I know I'll long for you, terribly, the rest of my life
and dream of you
and weep and
(nearly) die

of you.


© W.G. Myers