They told me getting old would be painful.

They told me that getting old would be painful.

I thought that meant achy knees or a stiff back,

dreading the cold weather and feeling the weight of the coming storm.

No one told me about the pictures that make your chest tighten,

how letters, yellowed with time, would make your eyes burn.

They didn’t tell me about the pain of empty chairs at Sunday dinners,

of cleaning out houses and holding holidays somewhere else now.

They never told me about the feeling,

that one when you drive by the house you grew up in and all the trees are gone,

the magnolia

and the mulberry

and the maples

where you stabled all your play pretend horses.

And it felt a little silly but you couldn’t help but wonder

if it hurt them when you went away.

No one told me about the choke in your throat

when you choose the song for a aisle

she’s not walking down,

not wearing white for,

not coming back from,

and how it squeezes down tighter and tighter until you can barely breathe

because you still have to choose a stone

that isn’t for her finger.

They told me getting old would be painful.

They didn’t tell me that the dread of colder weather would rush me to that shaded plot, high on the hill at the edge of town,

the one that overlooks the corn fields, all gold and green in the summer,

to bring in the flowers

and the wreaths

and the little lanterns we leave there,

before the coming storm.

I will pull the gnarled weeds that grow where love was planted,

half imagining I can rip away what binds you to the earth,

as if it’s only roots that hold you down there in the darkness.

I will scrub at the name that grows fainter with every season,

scrape at the moss that clings to the chiseled line that was your whole life,

tracing my finger along the little dash that is the culmination

of all your sorrows

and all your joys

and all those stupid monotonous moments that didn’t end up meaning anything at all.

I will rest my head against the cool hollow of your name and ask you how it all ends up like this,

some lacuna carved in rock or earth or flesh, just these empty places where something else used to be.

But I know you don’t know anymore than I do and I will get answers here like I’d get blood, no matter how hard I squeeze.

So I'll just sit with you in our silence for a bit

before I go to the next stone.

Because this is where the family gathers now

and tomorrow, my knees will ache

and my back will be stiff.

And since nobody told me,

I thought I should tell you that

getting old is painful.