My Mother Speaks to Me From the Afterlife

I was welcomed home by the me
I’d always tried to be—
more rainbow than thunderclap,
no more worry-do-worry-do.

I was afraid of this unafraid me
until we became one.
Life might have been like this
if life didn’t have to be what it was.

Here there are no floors to scrub,
no tubs to scour, no need to kneel.
I kneel now because it pleases me.

Believe me, you’re already here,
the you you’re still trying to be—a man
brave enough to love the loves he’ll lose.

Here, which is nowhere and everywhere,
we watch the living, unable to change a thing—
what God must feel like. We dead
replay the home movies of our lives:

a younger me dusts a dustpan,
an older me washes one sponge with another.

Alive, I got on my knees to pray,
but couldn’t not see a speck of mud I’d missed.
If I could go back, I’d kiss that stain
and leave it be. I see you

do-do-do-do-do.

It’s sweet that you’re writing
this poem about me,
worrying over every word,
but your wife and son are outside
in the rain, bare feet in wet grass.
They’re waiting for the you
you were meant to be.
Put down your pen
before you miss the rainbow,
before you miss the rest of your life.