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.

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

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