Will

By Steven O. Young Jr.

I’d attended his funeral from a distance. “Friends and family only.” I’d almost asked whose, but was choked up enough. Our time together amounted to a dash on his stone.

His executor later apologized with a box. For the loss, I presumed. She left before I could stomach opening it.

His left hand greets me, stiffened mid-wave. Evaporated rivers drained his ring’s tan-line reservoir. They’re shallower than the dash.

I navigate his tributaries and guide him to my source. I weather his wave along my shores and drown under his caress. For the first time, we both feel whole.

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“I write to give greater depth to the dash between the years my figurative headstone decides to highlight.” – the writer

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