When I Turn Into Moss
Will I still be myself?
When I’ll turn into moss, I’ll be missing my mom. When I’ll stop breathing, and my brain will shut down, I will think of my dad’s home and the frozen stream where we once found shrimp. I’ll have flashes of the snow falling on the roof, the blue school bus on rainy days. Of all the hours I’ve spent working, instead of going outside, smelling the air, making the most out of my little stupid life. All the time I gave up, or acted in fear.
When the trees will reclaim me and dismantle my bones, I will think of my dear friends, the way they used to smell like flowers and coffee and handmade cigarettes. Their hugs under the rain. Airports. Arguments. Walking arm in arm. So desperately human.
A second before leaving, leaving to become else, I will remember all the sunsets I saw from the roof of my car. The way I sang. My flat feet. My moles and flaws I will forever miss. My favorite hat. I can’t bring it with me with no head to place it on.
The night talks. The dances. The dinners made out of scraps. As I return to nature I’ll think of my sister, her button nose, and her infinite beauty and kindness. I shall protect her from the underwood. Make her life as bright as she is. Live and be happy my dear. I shall guard the ground for you, retain moisture, and think of your hands.
