varnish

i started five lines and then stopped, then took an eraser to them a moment later started again, this time only four, and again i took up that eraser.
we stopped believing
in all things
in man
in brother
in neighbor
these were the unwritten words. four more, as i had mentioned.
paul abbott stopped believing in god.
he recalled his initial feelings in a
letter to his sister annette who was
backpacking through the swiss alps.
there was a lack of rhythm, i thought. or maybe just a lack of emotion. so again to the paper i took.
the sun came out today.
for that i am thankful.
as i write this there is
if your mother could see you now what would she say? there she is on the porch, sitting in the wooden rocking chair your father built for her years before. he had sanded it down and gave it a varnish finish. it fades now in the morning sunlight but that doesn't stop your mother from using it. she loves that chair, just like she loved your father. but your father was a man tempted, wasn't he. you remember. the whole god damn block certainly remembers.
she was never that way.
none of it was ever that way.
none of it was ever true.
it was all just a
dream.
what does it feel like to dream of fear? in your worst nightmares are you dying? is something terribly, terribly awful happening to you? to your family? to your friends? is that the fear you feel? or is it a different kind? we'll see in the end that there is no end at all. a far more dreadful fear? a fear of the end? a fear of there not being an end? does it haunt you to know there is none? do you dream in truth? is that the fear far too horrible to dream?
we see you
in.
the.
ground.
six
feet
below
your family

is
not
there.
with you.
in the ground.