March 25th, 2014.

You thought that it was time to finally formally meet

a man who, honest enough, had just only barely known me.

I had met him before, sure, on the rare occasions when it was necessary,

like on Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving and sometimes birthdays.

But he was sick, ever since I'd ever known him, at least,

and as things had gotten worse, I just didn't care to know or to see

how badly his body had dwindled down to nothing

or how difficult it was for him to maneuver through life without assistance.

At some point, I don't really remember when,

he fell, I think, and he was moved to ICU.

Not because of the fall, but because of pneumonia in his lungs

that made some things hard, like breathing and being

capable of existing without seeming like he had a disability,

because despite his past in the military and 

despite his victory of some cancerous evil entities,

he was a perfectly strong human being...at least mentally. 

But I hated hospitals, hated the smell of chlorine and hand sanitizer

and dead parents and grandparents and sons and daughters,

but a few weeks later, he was moved, after a bit of a sour exchange,

from the hospital to a nursing home,

because of some reason or another,

one that wasn't known to his wife or my mother,

but that was alright, 'cause he was safe and okay.

because you had things completely under control, right?
His sons and wife visited him the day he died.

I had school that day, didn't expect you to take him away,

and neither did my mother,

when she told me

she would visit him tomorrow.

I was the only one awake

when the nursing home called her that night and

told her the news.

His last breath had been taken,

he was gone.

He had left this dusty, dirty ground

and he had moved on.

He and his wife and his two sons would go on a regular basis to church,

the one where she worked that just so happened

to be down the road from their home,

but he hadn't gone in a while, since he had gotten sick

and broken and too fragile to move,

and even though I usually tend to not believe in you,

I prayed.

The evening he died, I prayed, I cried.

I apologized.

And today, at his funeral,

I bowed my head with everyone else

and I closed my eyes.
I hoped that you would hear me

and tell him that I was sorry

for never wanting to be around him,

for never getting a chance to say goodbye.

I remember looking at his body.

My cousins, bless their hearts, had the courage to reach out

and touch him, but I couldn't. 

I wouldn't. I didn't deserve to,

because if his soul had left and gone up to you,

then he was too holy for me to taint with my filthy touch.

He was too pure for me to ruin with my belated love.
All of those people who went to church with him

or knew him by word of mouth or by some sort of relation

had gone up to him, said some last words,

and gone about their day, 

headed back to the church for some good old celebrations

of his life and his past prosperity,

and I have to admit,

I liked the company and despite my abundance of social anxiety,

I honestly enjoyed sitting with those people and talking like friends.

The only problem is

that they worship God and his only begotten Son,

a story of a Jewish martyr that I just cannot bring myself to believe in,

and as much as I would love to do the same

and to form a connection like he did

with these people, I just can't.

because ironic enough, it would be a sin for me

to pretend just to be accepted into a religion that I don't agree with,

but it will probably be just like him.

I might love them

after it's too late.