IF FOUND / IF DEAD

IF FOUND / IF DEAD

Here’s What You Need To Know:

Every thing I’ve ever seen, I’ve loved. I’ve lived the lives of every person in mine, and I know the things they’ve done and the things they’ve grieved and the things they’ve endured and the things they’ve adored, and I’ve felt every thing they’ve felt. I’ve been a stray and I’ve been an example, and this is the thing for which I have been fighting: gifting a spoonful of amenity to each inch, each meter, each ounce of thing that has ever been. My feelings are felt everywhere and my blessings are passed on and my receptions are plastered in the rooms which made us the thing we are, people, places, ideas, stories. I’ve been as hopeless and as ecstatic and as anguished and as passionate and as terrified as every one of you. I have the ever-greatest unmeasurable amount of adoration for every thing I have ever touched and seen and smelt and heard, and you are one of them. You have been in a part of my life that had never come before, and I will miss it in the next. I will dream of some thing I cannot place, and I will admire you, this thing, when I am contemplating the feet that hang from my bed-frame. You will be a sound I heard in second grade and a scent I recognized on my lunch break fourteen years later, and you will be the streak of paint that completes a yearly masterpiece in some studio I never got around to this time. Who knows what the name will be, perhaps an homage to you, perhaps to me, perhaps any thing I have felt and seen, any thing I have written in ink, any thing I have typed with nail-bitten pads, any color the sky has ever been. There are more colors than this, you know. There are so many things you will learn when you join me, and I will await your arrival with pistachio-palms and cool-mint-hair, and it’s not a cloud or a heavenly home, but a place only we have seen, or smelt, or touched, or lived. I will not mourn you while my feet hang lonesome and I will not count the heartbeats that lead to our re-unity, but I will admire the imitations of your spirit and I will leave a graze of green upon it and the stain will visit you with hopeful eyes and security above every inch of ground we’ve ever known, and you will feel my hand on your arm and you will not be afraid, not be glum, not be pensive in any way that does not mirror an applause— an ovation of rave that reaches lands beyond sea. If I am no longer next to you, take these words as mandate, as a scrape from bowls sat fixed in stainless-(if you say so)-steel and shunned for the exact amount of time it takes for it to start recruiting the space, spreading whiffs of all things bad like a middle-school locker room: Believe in the prospect of every tear; but still smile as you are cleaning my pants to find solace in a closet for the next three years until a little guy named courage walks into the room and they make their way to the thrift shop. Believe in the growth of your ability to love and lose, and believe in the things you experience now, here— the combination stargazers and easy-on-the-eyes carnations, the dust of my entire soul in a crafted-forevermore home, the bellflowers, the cherry wood, the golden trumpet and the piano and the air that is standing between us. Believe in the belief that I am a believer— in purpose, in guidance, in empathy, in morality and sacrifice, passion and faith, devotion and resilience, and throw your misgivings to a wicker basket and feel belief in your pores for the certainty that I, the one whom you grieve, am a believer in the immortality of my life. Not a mansion in the sky, but a desk with four half-gone tubes of burnt sienna and phthalo blue, and I am forever the person you know me to be, and you are forever the person who made it to me, and we are forever the people to live and foresee: that I am inside of your body and inside of your home, and you will feel sad and you will feel lost but you will not find room for blame, as blame has done no good. I want you to extract that wing entirely from the process, and I want you to throw out anything you desire, and re-paint the walls to some mauvey-earthtone or whatever finds its way between your fingers in a hell-lit warehouse, and I want you to break the drywall down if that’s what it takes for you to hear my voice. I am never away— I am every thing. I am always with you. I have seen you, and I have loved you, and I have been with you in every sense of it. I am your heart. I am the wind and the sand and the reflection on your sunset windows, and I am the pen you find in the bottom of your purse that glides like wrapping paper, and I am you, I am you, I am you.

— ODH