Epitaph
By Merrit Malloy
When I die
Give what’s left of me away
To children
And old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
Cry for your brother
Walking the street beside you.
And when you need me,
Put your arms
Around anyone
And give them
What you need to give to me.
I want to leave you something,
Something better
Than words
Or sounds.
Look for me
In the people I’ve known
Or loved,
And if you cannot give me away,
At least let me live on in your eyes
And not your mind.
You can love me most
By letting
Hands touch hands,
By letting bodies touch bodies,
And by letting go
Of children
That need to be free.
Love doesn’t die,
People do.
So, when all that’s left of me
Is love,
Give me away.
Today is the anniversary of Ken’s death, tomorrow would have been our 30th wedding anniversary – magic and loss side by side on my calendar. Marking the day with my daughter, a grown woman with whom he spent the last 5,810 days as her dad, the desert air is thick with memories – precious but not without pain.
He was her first word. Naturally, it was towards him that she took her first tentative little steps. On one of his birthdays, she first clapped her hands. He taught her how to pay attention, pointing out things that otherwise might go unnoticed – a collectible coin in a handful of loose change, critters in a tide pool, a tiny hummingbird nest concealed within the Hong Kong orchid tree that grew outside her bedroom window, a constellation of stars in a winter sky.
She once told me she hopes to accumulate even an ounce of his wisdom – to become the kind of reassuring figure he was. His was a voice of experience and of unconditional love, and it always put her at ease. Heartening and healing, always.
She doesn’t remember some of the milestone moments the way I do – they are the stuff of baby books and old VHS tapes she is unable to watch. She remembers his unconditional love, the constancy of him – how he was there to pick her up after school every day, to hold her hand to keep her warm in the frozen food section of the grocery store, to take her to Dairy Queen for a Blizzard every Friday afternoon, to remind her to remind him to feed the family of hummingbirds that considered our patio their home.
Together, they shared hundreds of little routines and rituals that helped create an unshakeable certainty for her first 15 years. He was always there. Every single day. And, just like that, he wasn’t.
He wasn’t there to see her graduate from high school and college, pass her driving test or nail the interview to get her first job. He wasn’t there when she bought her first car or when she drove it to the university admissions office to register for grad school. He wasn’t there when she got the keys to a home of her own, or to hear the way her voice sounds when she talks about being in love. He wont be here to light 24 candles on her birthday cake.
Love is all that’s left to fill the empty spaces he left behind. Love is all that’s left to give away.
