Grief is a fickle thing.
I’ll be alright for an hour or so,
distracted and occupied with
anything and everything
I can bring myself to do.
The next thing I know,
I’m thinking about you,
and I have to squeeze my own throat
to keep the sobs inside my chest
from bursting out.
It’s a difficult thing to do while driving
80 miles an hour on the 15 freeway.
I think about how good men in life
are hard to come by,
but that I was lucky enough to know you.
I think about how every time
you called me beautiful,
I know that you meant it
with every fibre of your being.
I think about your lead foot and
stubborn attitude,
and how it must be genetic.
My foot is just as heavy,
and my unwillingness to compromise
on the things that matter most to me
is a mirror of your own.
I think about the garden you built
at the blue house just a block from our own.
Neither of us live there anymore,
but I like to think that the “zucchininis”
are growing just as you intended.
I remember
extra red onions on your subway sandwich,
full-bellied laughter after sneaking a bite
of dinner to the dog,
every pat on the head,
every “good job” and “I love you.”
Your last words to me were over the phone:
“I’ll call you right back.”
I know you won’t now,
But I wish you would.
Beth Sage Phung is a writer and teacher from San Diego.