Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
Well, that was stupid.
Of all the things
you could have done
on your eightieth birthday,
dying seems
a spectacularly poor choice.
There was cake to consider.
Another crossword.
An afternoon in your chair,
watching someone on television
solve a murder
with considerably more enthusiasm
than the police.
There was spaghetti
to bury beneath
an unreasonable amount of cheese.
There were, frankly,
options.
But no.
You went and died.
And I keep thinking
what a stupid thing to do,
as though you've taken
a wrong turn
or forgotten
where you put your glasses.
As though I could call
and tell you so.
As though you'd answer
with that familiar certainty
that I had misunderstood
the situation entirely.
And God,
what I would give
to hear you tell me
I was wrong.
I suppose
that's the peculiar cruelty
of losing someone.
The things that once
drove you to distraction
become the things
you would bargain
with the universe
to have back.
A stubborn opinion.
An argument going nowhere.
The sound of a voice
you never imagined
could become
something you remembered
instead of heard.
And then there is
the extraordinary stupidity
of permanence.
The way the world
continues
with such appalling indifference.
The sun comes up.
The kettle boils.
Somewhere,
someone is making spaghetti
and using far too little cheese.
And you are dead.
Such a small word
for something
that has taken up
so much room.
I keep wanting
to lodge a complaint.
There has been
some administrative error.
Eighty years
is a respectable beginning,
but surely
we weren't finished.
There were things
we hadn't said.
Things we had said
and wished we hadn't.
Whole years
of standing
on opposite shores,
believing there would always
be another bridge
to build.
And now
there isn't.
No more chances
to misunderstand
each other.
No more opportunities
to get it wrong.
Or right.
And the terrible thing is,
after all the distance,
after everything
we couldn't find
our way through,
I still wanted you
to have more time.
Even if none of it
was spent with me.
I wanted another morning
to belong to you.
Another ridiculous crossword.
Another ordinary day
you would never think
to be grateful for
because you had no reason
to believe
it would be your last.
I wanted you
to go on existing
somewhere in the world.
And now
you don't.
And I cannot make
that sentence
mean anything
I know how to live with.
So here I am,
forty-three years old,
still finding myself
wanting to tell my father
he's done something
utterly ridiculous.
As though you might
hear me.
As though you might
laugh.
As though,
if I sound sufficiently
annoyed with you,
I won't have to admit
how terribly
I miss you.
Well, Dad.
That was stupid.
You really
shouldn't have
done that.
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Poetry by Britt Wolfe:
Grief is a peculiar thing. It doesn't always arrive with dignity or eloquence. Sometimes it comes disguised as irritation, disbelief, or the utterly unreasonable desire to scold someone for something they cannot possibly undo. I've been thinking about the absurdity of permanence, the extraordinary audacity of a world that simply carries on, and the strange way loss can make even our most exasperating memories feel unbearably precious. Well, That Was Stupid is a little irreverent, a little indignant, and considerably more heartbroken than it would like to admit. Because sometimes, when something is too enormous to comprehend, all we can manage is to point at the universe and tell it what an absolutely ridiculous thing it's done. 💚