Forgive Me

There are no alarm clocks in heaven.

No cold coffee warmed more than once in the microwave.

My father is always singing some Johnny Cash tune

and dances close with my mother

on the yellow linoleum floor.

In heaven, I don't have to drive an hour to work,

I can ride my bike. 

Better yet, I stay home for a year,

dial in to find the records of someone who needs me

and poor souls can't tell the difference.

On days like today

God is watching me

as I swell with the quiet of my gardens

waiting to thaw and push daffodils toward the sky.

Last time I remember November

I planted 800 golden prayers of hope

into the earth to remember those who didn't make it

and to whisper "Forgive me" to those who did.

The aroma of the dirt from so many small graves,

secretly satisfying as I caressed each body to rest.

Today, after such a long nap

maybe I'm Rip Van Winkle

hibernating next to the maple 

savoring the sap rising

knowing so many of us

will never wake up.

Here on Earth, we all eventually

just stop breathing

while the world goes on without us,

expecting those we love to be with us

singing like chubby cherubs

and holding our hands

and stroking our brow

until the very end.