When my grandfather passed, I slept every night, waiting for the dream. Tick, tick a mantle clock counts the night. He sits in silence, laying out a game of solitaire. He knows I’m waiting for a seat. We have a conversation about his life I was happy, I woke up. I was happy. It was death done right.
When you passed, I slept again. Every morning hour. I imagine you were busy with others. I’ve tried to force you, fight the image, fabricate you in the seconds before I drift. I’ve caught the sleeve of your arm and ripped your shirt to shreds – I’m selfish. Your voice should appear telling me things you need me to hear,
Hello? Bad signal? I’ll call later.
But later never came, and I continue, sleeping like a dead man. And maybe, maybe, that’s the point when death is done so wrong.