It seems as though it was yesterday when you stood in the kitchen and said, “nothing a bullet can’t fix.”
Your prophetic words were lost in plain sight after I asked how you were feeling.
You hunched in pain, holding onto a chair full of shadow.
Your words, frozen now in between then and forever.
When I excavate that raw memory, there are no lilies opening in sunlight.
The old grieving shed hidden by bamboo stalks,
Still stands in silence, visible only in time, and to the tall cedar trees.
That moment is never gone.
Nothing a bullet can’t fix.
