For Querida, who lived longer and better than anyone expected, and surprised us even more when she died.

For five years I wondered
what song I would sing at your funeral.
For five years I waited
in grimy hospital chairs and sterile rooms,
making your terminal setlist in my head.
I could sing you ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings’,
but you would hate that. I could sing you
‘Forever Young’ but more accurate would be
‘Only young once in a while’.
I worry that you were only young when I wasn’t.
I could sing you ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and pretend
you were some kind of devout Methodist, but you
were the one I came to when I didn’t know
what to do about boys, and when Cecily got pregnant,
and when my parents were just a few years too old to handle.
You read Anne Rice novels and Harlequins and loved
Poison and Ozzy Ozbourne and, if truth be told, you
were so up in the air most days, that you
were probably pinching God’s toes black and blue.
You loved Him, and He loved you, but it’s too late to pretend piety.
I could sing ‘I Will Remember You’ but
that would only make the ladies from the church board
feel guilty that I, at nineteen, was the only one who
had any recent memories of you at all, not that even I
called you enough towards the end of things.  Because I didn't.
But I was the one who would walk your kids home from school
when you were too sick, and bring you salted watermelon,
a food preference I wouldn’t understand until you’d died,
and it would become all I could stomach, just like you.
I could sing you ‘Sweet Love’, but you and Eric
loved like burning oil and boiling water.
If I were being honest, which I guess I shouldn’t be
at your funeral, I would sing ‘I Knew This Story
Would Break My Heart’, because I did.
After five years of you, querida, I knew you didn’t intend
to stay for the whole party. And I knew I’d never
sing at your funeral. And I knew I wouldn't be
there for you at the end like I should have been.  And I knew that
drinking wine with you would turn into drinking alone, staring at the wall,
a glass dangled loosely in my hand, listening to Aimee Mann
or James Taylor breaking through drunken recordings of your
voice in my head. Just yesterday morning, they let me know
you were gone, [Rachel, the men in this town will]
put an end to you. I walked out this morning,
and drew a picture of you, you and your anchor tattoo [of baby feet that I got at
Ozzfest last year, one for Gabey and one for Mary, and one for Anthony]
That’s how I knew this story would [break your heart in two if you let them].
That’s how I knew this story would break my heart.