A blue tie and a scythe

I dream of myself holding a red rose,

rain whispering against my black clothes.

Above me, a murder of crows.

A cry breaks.

Mom? Dad?

Did I die?

Who’s that man in the blue tie,

holding a scythe?

This can’t be right.

I see the light.

Have I been claimed by the eternal night?

Then let me write

my final rite.

Mother—

thank you for every time I had the flu,

you, cooking that lovely chicken soup.

Father—

thank you for the laces,

for teaching me how to stand in different places.

Thank you both

for pushing me to grow.

I bow to you both,

whether the ground is glass

or snow.