Random Leaf #1897 precisely cut

I wanted to cry at your funeral,

but I knew it would be for the wrong reason.

I know you died.

I was sad about it.

I know it’s a very big deal and all—

but what made the dam behind my eyes

almost burst into a river

was being denied the honor of pallbearing.

I remembered how strong I am.

I used to claim the titles:

“mountain shaper” and “tree feller,”

earned from mischievous deeds

done once—or more than once.

And these weren’t even the real proofs of strength.

The real signs were in the soft things:

me holding your hand,

our arms entwined as we climbed the stairs,

or when we’d walk together

through cramped little alleyways.

I can do many things.

I can do all things.

And right when I wanted to show you

one last time

how strong I’ve become—

I couldn’t.

I was denied that one small wish,

that one childish, prideful hope:

to carry you.

To show everyone

how strong your grandchild is.

I was denied the chance

to carry you one last time,

and that—

that is what made me cry.

I’ve accepted that you’re gone forever,

but I can’t, for the life of me, accept

that with my tear-stung, star-eyed grief,

you can’t tell the world

one last time

how strong your grandchild has become.

Maybe it wasn’t really about showing strength.

Maybe…

maybe I just wanted

to carry you

one last time.