Good Morning

Cue the speakers –

for the baritone blues

that made him sing in sunsets

with a beer in hand –

 

the house lights, 

as you come in oversized shirts and white polos; in 

faded country jeans and knee-high dresses;

 

the meals for the morning,

serving steamed rice, and hotdogs, and eggs,

where at 6 o’clock you are all very tired very hungry

and very dry from a long night

 

Cue the hugs 

– for you have gone away for so long –

from the maid, who watched him overnight,

wearing the same Betty Bop shirt, you missed her in; 

the cousins, whose graduations he saw, who rumbled

and tumbled for the amusement of the cheering

crowd in your bedroom;

the aunt, who you have bugged over and over

for the birthday present you thought were entitled to;

the uncle, his son, who arrived alone

 

the pictures

of the person – who could not be  

the same person you see before you –

still brown and skinny,

and hair still frizzy; 

and the tattered shirt he always wore

when you saw him and

last saw him,

and wondering and hoping 

if you could still smell the beer from his mouth 

if you leaned in just close enough

 

Cue the stand,

for the music has stopped,

and “we have all gathered here today”,

where the day is bright and the streets lively

 

the uncle

with a piece of paper in hand,

and trying to hold whatever he has left

in his voice

​

the cousin 

one of the few people on this earth

to see him cry 

 

nanay

who you would embrace in a long night,

whose poem this is dedicated to, 

whom we have left one by one, long ago

 

Cue the long pause,

for the gasping that inches closer 

and closer until it strangles

 

and the tears

that boils your throat; 

and breaks your ribs 

until your eyes swell pink, 

and you would wipe it off with the sleeve of the shirt 

you bought just yesterday

 

and all that time you are only thinking of 

crying that never comes out 

 

Cue to things about him that should make you cry,

where once, you played a game with him

where he would dial the home number 

and you would answer it in a different room;

where he would shoot the hoops with you 

and teach you how to box;

where you once sat on his lap and 

he reeked of beer; wearing the same 

holy shirt

 

and all you are doing is just staring

not quite sure what you’re staring 

 

and thinking of things you have bawled your eyes to

the time you lost your phone,

the time you saw Titanic

the time your pet snails died

 

and hoping nobody sees

 ​