Dan husband

This man

This man who gave me life. This man whose plight nearly took it away. Once, twice, three times. They became countless like stars and apologies. 

This man; a fraction. This man who will not allow understanding as half of one of us or what we know has always been missing. Kissing for the last time and feeling ragged breath rattling against the plastic mask. All that is left.

This man who has been gone too long. This man who exists in echoes on paper and in
anecdotal tales, half composted yet undigested by a beleaguered orator. I’m never going to get over it.

I hate this insidious nature that is all— sometimes all              there     is    left.

It is the absolute zero for this continued consumption. 

But after that, what’s next? 

This man who from beyond the grave bequeaths a bountiful boquet, a wealth of literal written wealth — before and after the stroke to get to know him better. A golden haired boy reading words from thirty years ago writing about a father writing about remembering a son as a boy. A man writing about learning 
of 
moments 
from arguably the most welcome kind of ghost. 

This man gone; this man grows.