You know the

“I’m okay.”

As you’re dressed

in black, mascara

smudged and running.

“I’m okay.”

As you place the

flowers on the grave.

“I’m okay.”

As your hands shake.

“I’m okay.”

As your body deteriorates.

“I’m okay.”

You continue to say,

even as you’re crying,

eyes blurring and burning.

“I’m okay.”

Would you admit it,

though, if you weren’t?

Would you even know?

“I’m okay, I promise.”

Don’t do that to yourself.

Don’t lie.

You like the rain,

today of all days.

Because the thunder

that comes with it,

you relate to.

“I’m okay.”

But are you?

Would you dance?

Celebrate that they lived?

Or are your eyes trapped,

caught in a trance,

replaying memories

of laughter, even

the tough crap?

Not just the happy,

but also the most hurting.

“I’m okay.”

You say,

staring at their grave.

Would you dance

for the life they lived?

Or would you only remember

the baby in the crib?

The child with the toys?

Would you forget

that they’re no longer a kid,

no longer a little boy?

That they grew up,

got a job and worked,

had kids of their own,

and yet…

“I’m okay.”

You’re allowed to hurt,

just don’t forget

the life he lived.

The smile he gave,

the little secrets in his eyes.

Don’t forget

he loved his life,

he loved his wife

and kids,

he was kinder

than anyone,

never told them

to shut up.

He didn’t believe in luck,

he chose hard work.

“I’m okay.”

He would want you

to know it’s okay.

You can be not okay.

It’s okay,

but you are not.

It’s a lot,

your brother

then your son,

but it’s okay.

You are not,

but it’s okay.

I understand

it’s a lot.

Just never try

to be okay when

you’re not.