—THIS COULD BE CLOSE TO IMPOSSIBLE, OR MAYBE NOT EVEN CLOSE

…I hope no one else dies this year.  I hope no one else dies ever again.

…The medicine cabinet is awfully empty.

…I’m not sure, but that sounded a lot like goodbye.

…Tender goodbyes are very overrated.  Other than “Sure,” goodbye is my very least favorite word.

…I’ll just drive wherever you tell me.

…Guys like me, we’re always getting lost.

…“If I had one night where sunshine could break through and show you everything, I’d choose right now.”

…If nothing else, you can sure get a lot of reading done at 2am.

…You either have a minute, or you don’t.

…Here’s some good advice for those of us with a frail heart—never ever watch the video for “I’ll Never Love Again.”

…If you think about it, nothing’s ever really straightforward.  There’s always that twist you never see coming.

…“Our mothers cried, sang along, who can blame them?”

…It’s always something, until something changes, and then that thing’s always changing.

…Everyone is mentally ill, or else they’re lying about it.

…I mean, who says anyone has to grow up?  Maybe someone who’s jealous of how happy you are.

…One of the things they say is that almost getting killed makes you feel most alive.  I’m not sure about that.

…This isn’t a prison for innocent people, said my mother once.

…The thing is, we’re evenly matched.

…Most people love hearing how great they are.  There’s probably a gene for that.  Or an app.

…You’re either here, or you’re not.

…What’s dead may never die.

…In death, we’re all the same, and we want the same thing.  And usually, God is what we want.

…The way funerals are for the living is the way gossip is for the gossiper.

…We shouldn’t be so disappointed, and yet there are times, are there not?

…I’ve watched your up’s and I’ve watched your down’s.  So, I understand you pretty well.  Yep.

…“I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face.”

…Sometimes it’s really slim pickings, so you gotta pick carefully, and confidentially.

…It’s hard to die without a ghost, said the ghost-singer.

…You can live without wants, but you can’t live without needs.

...“Hey, are you okay?”  That’s something you both want, and don’t want, to be asked.

…Please look out for the boy.  And the girl.  Especially the girl.

…Feel better.  I mean, well, you know what I mean.

…I’ve had plenty of perfect opportunities to lose myself.  I just keep messing them up.

…The sun has every other day to hold us.  Now it’s the storm’s turn.

…So, is this the future?

…Then scoot closer, and you’ll see that there’s nothing to see.

--I’M JUST A LITTLE WEAK ON MY FEET

                                   It Was Always You and I

The spiders are back, lounging over the sides of the dock like window cleaners hanging off skyscrapers.

Yet, all I can picture is you, along with that ratty, plush panda you loved so much, a panda you named Armie. 

Do you remember that?  How I asked, “Why Armie?”

How you said, “He’s an army man.  Made of armor, like a shield.”

How I said, “Oh, I get it, I guess.”

And how your last words were, “Don’t tell Dad, but Armie makes me feel better when you’re not around.”

The day we discovered Armie shredded, a trail of fluff leading to the garbage can, you stopped talking for good.  After that, you carried a fistful of plush in your pocket everywhere you went.

Eventually, you and I found a way to communicate with our minds, without words, a trick only twins know, though you paid for that, too.

Of course, Dad never liked you.

But he didn’t like me either. 

That’s why no more spoken words.  That’s why all the bruises and scars.

You and I, we matched our birth mother almost perfectly.  Our noses, our lids, foreheads, and chins.  Even our flat, pan-like faces resembled our birth mother. 

And because of those similarities, we were easy targets.  We were sluggish rabbits, one-winged moths.

But tonight, let’s focus on something else, like Luna, your favorite.  See her up there?  Perched on less-than-sturdy legs?  See how her wobbly glow sputters messages across the lake waves below?

I figured you did.

I cup a drink in my hand, as if it’s your chilly palm instead.  Behind me, my wife calls out, “It’s fucking freezing out there.  Come in.  It’s late.”

The others, they threw dirt across your casket, a shower of thudding brown pebbles and clotted clay.  But I couldn’t.  I didn’t believe for a second you were inside that box. 

Instead, I plucked a flock of butterflies off the limb of a nearby tree.  Set them free.  Watched them flutter, iridescent.  Extraordinary in every way.