Bowling Green

We have made it to Bowling Green. 

Every mile I drive, I move toward the finality. 

The moon 3/4 full in an empty sky except for a single star. A single pinhole in a black canvas. 

Son, is there really more?

Are you somewhere out there beyond the stars?

Are you with God?

Were you welcomed by familiars?

Are you without or within, or both?

I repeat your voice; your laughter, inside my head over and over. I am terrified I’ll forget how you sound.

I call your voicemail several times a day just to hear the greeting.

When all is still and dark the tears come. I allow them to fall and run over my cheeks to fill the tiny cups in my ears.

My chest is so heavy with the regret and the questions and the weight of the unfinished.