I realized
at ten years old
my dad sips
coffee cold and alone
shadows from the
garden’s rose
outside collect
across his chest and
for a moment
I saw a coffin
and all
so suddenly
revealed to me
my own mortality.

I asked my father
what happens after we die
and he served only honesty
“It goes blank, but I don’t know why”

I was petrified
of that clean slate
that would consume me;
purify my state
a stark white Empty
to swallow my soul
indefinitely.

But I was not afraid
of its permanency
but rather what
it would feel like
to exit this stage alone
with the flowers
of Regret and Memory.

He asked me, “honey,
are you scared to die?”

What might it feel like
for all that I am
to dissipate
my layers of Something to
open up into
Nothing
and for me to learn
in my last moment of living
who I really am
who I really was
at the doors of Eternity.

He asked me, “honey, are you scared to die?”

I’m not afraid of death
I’m afraid of dying.

Cover photo by Ihor Malytskyi.