Tailgate Gospel

No music.

Just us and the evening,

sitting on the tailgate

of your red Ford

facing a field

that looked like it could hold

every silence we didn’t know how to break.

You didn’t say much at first.

You never did.

Let the wind say what it wanted,

let the trees rustle out the nerves.

Mid-evening,

sky that color between blue and letting go.

Still light,

but barely.

You looked straight ahead—

not at me.

That’s how I knew it was coming.

The talk.

“When I’m gone…”

It landed soft.

Like you’d already been there

in your mind

a hundred times

before saying it out loud.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t blink too much.

Just listened.

Because I knew this wasn’t something

I could interrupt.

“You’ll be the one to hold it together.

Your mama.

Your brother.

It’s gonna fall to you.”

You didn’t say it like it was a burden.

You said it like a fact,

like gravity,

like something with roots.

I wanted to ask how—

how I’m supposed to be you

without you.

But I didn’t.

You wouldn’t have answered anyway.

You would’ve just looked back at that field

and told me I already knew.

You didn’t touch me,

didn’t hug me,

didn’t need to.

Just sat beside me,

boots scraping dust,

eyes on the horizon like you saw something

you weren’t ready to say goodbye to.

That moment—

it hangs on me.

Not heavy.

Just always there.

Like the red Ford.

Like your voice.

Like that sky,

still light

just long enough.