Writing Your Obituary and Wondering if You Would Like It
This is not the place to discuss the time you chucked
a Playboy magazine in my middle-schooler lap just for a hoot. No,
here your love for ugly dogs and riding lawn mowers is not important.
I do not mention how often I picture the last time
I saw you. Instead, I must write the year you were born,
and the one in which you ceased to exist. Then, I must fill in the years
with where you went to college and some of your hobbies,
but only the boring ones. This is not the place to tell of my dreams
where you lick gardens clean of weeds by the light
of a setting moon. There is no place, here, to note
that I’ve only seen my father, your only son, cry once
before, but now he listens to messages you left him weeks ago
and falls into fountain. How do I say this in a place
that does not care about the bang of your voice,
your neck, seldom seen without the snake of a scarf, the smell
of your house, your handwriting, slow wink, onyx rings, how much
I wish I had called, I wish
I had called, I wish I had called, the weight
of your hugs
and the size of your
hands.
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Rachel Beneway is a senior English Education major and creative writing minor at SUNY Fredonia. She has previously been published in Gandy Dancer and Fredonia’s literary magazine, The Trident. She would love to befriend Junie B. Jones.