Pink Lemonade

She said, Ali, if it doesn't work out with this guy

I don't know what I'm going to do,

and I had to attend her funeral

on a Wednesday afternoon

wondering where the guy was, if he knew.

I am tied to this body, this lonely vessel of gloom

the only thing separating me from her

is the ability to push through.

Only her dog survived her; I was

promised that he went to a good home.

I had seen her hold him just two weeks before.

I haven't told anyone this, but I got a dog myself

to save me from Wednesday nights,

when it's me versus her coffin, staring at me through

hooded eyes. When it's me versus what's inside.

And yes, I am always that dark, at my very core,

in my very own mind.

But surviving is a choice, a pink lemonade

born from rotten fruit.

And it's not bitterness that leads me to that truth,

it's the light that is promised on Thursday morning

after the storm clears,

a certain hope, and with any luck,

I'll believe it to be true -

for my dog's full name

is Ernest Hope Hemingway,

he saves me every single day, every single Wednesday

that remains.