I forgot to ask
(for S. Trudel)
Once the dust has settled after a death and the mad rush of deep memory short-films stashed in the way back has spun out to a trickle, and the bees have carried the news to every hive... once we have passed through all the hoops then the quiet sets in. I begin to think about the things I forgot to ask you. How deep to plant the mustard seeds that will save the hearts of the next generation. How to stomach the early morning sorrows that have no cause. When to kick out the voice in my head that competes with your voice, your voice telling me we are going to be ok. I forgot to ask for the key to the conundrum and I forgot to ask how many steps to the top, or if there even is a top. I forgot to ask what you know about the way Queen Anne's lace and wild blue chicory dance in the meadow. I forgot to ask you to teach me that song you learned from toads. I forgot to ask how to free the precious parts of ourselves we think no one might love. I forgot to ask how.