I Dream of You Mowing the Grass

On my walk today, a few yards ahead,

a man pushed a lawnmower

and for a moment I thought it was you.

Cut off jeans.

Frizzy hair the length of a man who had seen more than his fair share of Iron Maiden tour concerts.

Unbuttoned flannel that waved open with each step, the t-shirt underneath reading the name of a band I had never heard of

or perhaps just did not read correctly.

It wasn't you, however.

Of course it wasn't.

He was older than you

because he was alive.

Nine months older.

What a sight to catch a glimpse of you doing yardwork.

Something I never realized, I never witnessed.

I dream of the regular things I never saw you do.

Like mowing the grass.

The things we never-and will never- get to do.

I dream of the regular things.

You in the passenger seat of my car, choosing the radio station.

You helping to load carboard boxes into my first house.

You being proud of me for buying a house.

(I also dream of one day owning a house)

I dream of you popping over for coffee on the weekends.

You becoming Grandpa (or whatever ridiculous name you would want to call yourself to be edgy).

I dream of the regular things.

You changing a lightbulb.

You telling me about your dentist appointment.

Getting a call from you, and not just because the calendar said so.

Hearing that you booked off time from work to see me.

You reading a book in a comfy chair

Or dozing off in front of a hockey game.

But I know.

I know it wasn't enough for you...

The regular things that would have been enough for me.

This is a truth I must reconcile with

and I am trying.

I dream of seeing you mow the grass.

I dream I had been there to hold you while you were dying.