Holding Your Bones

Holding Your Bones


I remember you holding me,
Rocking me.
Laying behind me on the coach,
Solid, soft.
One leg thrown over my hip.
You rocked me back and forth,
So gently.
It calmed me, melted me quickly
Into deep sleep.

We would lay together this way,
So softly, so sweetly,
For hours, days....

She said you talked about us all the time,
Me, the house, the boys,
Even the cats.
She felt like she knew me.
I felt like I knew her too.

When she first arrived at the house she cried.
I cried.
We held each other in place of you.
We drank red wine,
Shared stories of you till morning.

That night, when she walk in the door
I met another side of you.
A wild, young, traveling side of you.
The side that stayed up all night at concerts.
I kept looking back behind her,
Thinking you'd be right there with her,
Walking in....

I knew another side of you,
The domesticated side.
The cooking, cleaning, towel fights with the boys in the kitchen side.

You always returned to us.
Your safe haven, your escape from the rest of the world.
Often times you lay too sick to move.
I cared for you,
As if you were my own child.
Made you soup,
Tea,
Rubbed your feet.

When she opened the box I was shocked.
They didn't look like any ashes I had seen before.
Not dusty and grey,
Like the ashes of my father.
They were white and chunky.
She said it was because you were so young,
Your bones not yet brittle.

I picked up little pieces of your bones,
I held them in my hand.
Remembering how close I wanted to get to you when you were alive.
Always longing to be closer,
To merge with you,
To crawl inside your skin,
To touch your soul.
Now here I was,
Holding your bones.

How could this be all that is left of you?
Handsome, sensual, musical, funny, talented, sarcastic you?
Now just a box,
Filled with bone fragments...

Many months before this house was filled with our laughter.
Our voices, and guitars,
Ringing out in harmony,
Echoing off the walls.
The music of our voices,
Merging in passion.

She carries the box with her,
On the passenger seat of the car.
She wants you with her wherever she travels.
She and you mother put tiny bits of you into metal viles, they wear around their necks.
Want you close to their hearts.
I don't want to carry your body on me.
I made a necklace that carries much more of your spirit and energy;
Your guitar pick.
Your living hands,
Fingers slippery with sweat,
Held it for hours.
Striking it over and over,
against the guitar strings.
Pouring your heart and soul into the music.
Whaling at the top of your lungs.

She placed the box on top of the dresser,
In your old room.
Next to the picture you put up.
The one I could never bring myself to take down.
You were back,
Things had come full circle.
Only this time there was silence.
You were silent.