a letter for 28

i guess my grandpa dying is a thing that happens at 28.
suns setting — endlessly,
and days trickling away — quickly.
i guess the game of mash was never anything
but a tale of fun,
a game that kept hope locked up in our souls,
a collision of our spirits and the world,
— before we set root in our fullness.

yeah… that’s the word; fullness.

i always thought i’d arrive…
but the more i live,
the less i dig,
and the more things just surface.
it’s a whole lot more about things surfacing for me than it is about the arrival.
the tears really do water our gardens —
some are full of fruit + grace…
some hold mystery + risk.

there it is again… that word; risk.

and before i go on another tangent,
i’ll leave you with hope.
hope that entangles change.
hope that endures tomorrow.
hope that fragrances every single age
that comes upon you + i.
that’s the fruit that lives for eternity.
that’s the reality that our soul will survive off of.
— hope, is the reality that our soul will survive off of.

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