The Big One
On the car ride home
I fell in and out of sleep.
So, you took my head
and laid it on your shoulder, gently.
I tried to force myself to stay awake,
but it wasn’t working.
In the dark,
you cradled me in your lap,
so when your Dad asked if I was still up,
you laughed and poked fun at me.
It was a beautiful day at the beach.
In and out of the waves,
we held hands,
just you and I.
You blocked the big ones
from drowning me.
The hat you lent me
drew shade
to keep my cherry red cheeks
from burning.
It felt clean to be home,
but at the same time,
you mattered like the moon,
and feeling complete was being with you.
In the summer, in your car,
in Omaha, or nights at the park.
Next to your group of superhero friends,
we sat on the sand, me in your lap,
watching the ocean
reach out and slip away.
I liked it when you bragged about me
but never when you were a show-off.
Someone asked about the musician
on my t-shirt, but I was shy to answer.
You reassured them that, with time,
I would come out of it.
They took a picture of me and you
when the sun set.
We’re smiling with my hand on your chest
and your arm wrapped around me.
My future bloomed before my eyes.
Married, sunburnt, full,
and having you to keep.
Then we buried you in a hole up to your neck
and aimed to pour beer between your lips.
Everyone was entertained,
but your Mom was pissed.
I’d do anything to taste the salt
on you from that day.
We walked along the coast
to have some time alone
and that’s where you told me
that I looked beautiful.
You kissed me.
Our shadows danced with the shore,
merging into one form
being kept warm by the sun.
Part of myself stayed there,
hoping to live in that thread of time
forever.
We swam endlessly,
feet floating,
you protecting me.
What I would give to have that again
is too much to admit out loud.
We were more catastrophic
than any size of ocean,
saturated in your deep green.
If I had known
that that was going to be the last time
you loved me,
I never wouldn’t let myself fall asleep.