Closure

I met your mother today at one of our old haunts

three years from the day you burned the bridge between us.

Part of me was afraid to approach, but God knows I’m glad I did.

The first thing she told me was that you were alive.

How sad that her first thought was to reassure me

as if that had been eating away at her as well.

You're getting your feet back under you, but your mother worries.

I hear it in the tremble of her voice, see it in the wetness of her eyes.

“She has strayed away from God.”

My friends and I went to the beach this evening.

Is it selfish of me to take them to the spot you showed me?

To sit on the cliffs and feel my heart break fully

while the sea birds circle and settle down to roost.

Grief is not a straight line. It is as tumultuous as the ocean,

receding for a while before crashing down on you.

I've spent three years rewriting memories, hoping to forget you.

Because then maybe your ghost will stop haunting me.

I find myself wondering if seeing your parents was a sign

that things are going to change.

After all, the Lord moves in mysterious ways.

But my friends disagree.

“Closure,” they say to me. “This is closure.”

I’m back on the cliffs with your laughter in my ears.

I’m strolling through the mall, your footsteps in sync with mine.

I’m standing in your living room, listening to you play the piano.

I’m sitting across from you downtown, iced coffee forgotten in my hand.

I’m walking away from you, tears drenching my mask.

I’m accepting that I’m moving on, moving far away, living without your ghost.

Closure, I tell myself.

This is closure.