Death is meant to be the end.
But you live forever in my memories.
When I think about Alabama, our big home, the blazing yellow sun; you live.
When I taste the lemon tea, steaming hot, you made me when I was sick; you live.
When I feel your smile chasing away my black, bitter tears; you live.
Your curled black hair staying posed in the wind,
Your neck embracing the class of golden perfume,
The sizzle of the bacon you made me in the morning,
The sound of a pen slithering on your crossword puzzles,
The softness’ of your hand against mine:
In all these things, you live.
As you rested in your black coffin, the memories ceased.
But the ones made, still dance in my dreams.
In moments of grief, I breathe them in.
All I need are those memories,
So I will always have you, here, holding my hand.