The Last Day of November | Grace Hovda

please excuse my absence on the last day of november 

i’m not sick, not on the road, not out of town 

just out of time: my allowance of grief is spent

i’ve once again met the day my father died

the day i woke up by his side for the last time 

time passed in that liminal space, desperate for more time 

alone with him 

alone with his body 

would he have heard me speak?

should i have saved those last hours to make peace? 

i’m still asking these questions 

still waiting for an answer to make sense 

of him 

of his death

if i could make the pilgrimage to Matteson 

would i stand in front of his grave 

ask the tile with his name 

or hold my breath like i always do?

and if i could drive to my brother’s house 

would i stand in front of the altar 

let my heart cave, tears wet my face, raise my voice 

or hear it shake and falter?

on the last day of november 

i’m busy trying to remember and un-remember 

praying i’ll surrender to my grief once more

behind closed doors

before the first year is over

i’ll cling to each hour of this day 

feel the ring he once held on my finger

linger on memories, borrow time for my heartache  

and pretend i’ll be fine by tomorrow