Turning left onto MacCorkle Avenue
I am driving past our old meeting place
when the weight of missing you
knocks the air from my chest.
Every time I come back the grief
has expanded, a universe pushing outward.
Now it’s draped over the mountains,
settled into the deepest hollows
like a sheet over a tired body.
The hills are alive
with the ghosts of regret.
The trees whisper what if
and should have.
How many times
to how many loved ones
have I said
I am so sorry
this was your ending?
