I kissed her bruised temple

And held her hands, which were still soft and not yet rigored.

I played her favorite song—

Delta Dawn—

And wept over her.

And for the first time,

She was not here to sing along.

Every birthday was an empty promise of karaoke.

Two weeks before my twenty-fifth rotation around the sun—

On the most unlucky day of the year.

Friday the 13th.

I expected her laughter to ricochet down the hallway

And float into me.

A woman who always made her presence known

Left quietly, so out of character.

She came to me in a dream that night.

Touched my cheek

And told me she’s never been happier.

I read somewhere that dying is like falling asleep on the couch

And being carried to bed,

Family in the next room playing gin rummy,

Every melody from childhood blurring together in a medley,

Records scratching the parts of the brain that remained suppressed until then.

I asked her if this was true.

She smiled at me

But no words came out—

Just the last lines of Delta Dawn—

To take you to his mansion in the sky.