You didn't look like yourself
when I saw you in your coffin.
You looked like someone understood
the vague idea of you.
But not really you.
I leaned down to kiss your forehead,
like I had many times when you were still alive.
They never tell you how cold corpses are.
But it only makes sense.
They're no longer alive.
No heart a beat-beat-beating.
No blood a pump-pump-pumping.
I saw family and friends.
People I had never met.
Distant cousins.
Neighbors from Havana.
Even your doctor.
The priest gave a eulogy
and invited us to give a speech.
I wanted to
but found myself lacking the words.
A big nasty knot formed in my throat
But no tears fell
As you were lowered into the ground.
On the drive home, I played your favorite song.
The one we used to dance to when I was a kid
The one I played to you on your deathbed to comfort you.
As I got home I went to your room
And I realized it was empty.
No oxygen machine beeping.
No fan quietly spinning.
Quiet.
And then I realized
That was what my life would become.
Quiet.
No more sleeping at your side to make sure you didn't fall out of bed.
No more blood pressure machines.
No more oxygen masks.
Just
Quiet.
And finally,
I cried.