Season Ticket

Some days I think
God should come down here himself.

Not for the weddings,
or the sunsets,
or the moments people post online
with soft music behind them.

I mean here.

Hospital corridors that smell like bleach.
3am phone calls.
Watching your mother forget pieces of herself
while you stand there pretending
it doesn’t break something in you too.

Come down here
and explain the mathematics of it.

Explain why cancer keeps learning the names
of people I love.

One friend.
Then another.
Then cousins.
Then someone else.

Like grief’s got a season ticket
and keeps turning up at my door
without knocking.

And the worst part is,
I don’t even flinch properly anymore.

That’s what frightens me.

I hear bad news now
and part of me quietly thinks,
“Who’s next?”

What a horrible way to live.

You took them slowly too.
Which somehow felt crueler.

Not lightning strikes.
Not instant mercies.

Slow fading.
Slow suffering.
Slow goodbyes stretched over months
until hope itself starts feeling embarrassed
for staying so long.

And people say things like,
“Stay strong.”

As if strength is some noble glowing thing.

Most days it’s ugly.

Most days strength is answering messages
when you want silence.
Paying bills while your chest caves in.
Making dinner.
Going to work.
Laughing at something
then hating yourself for laughing
because somebody you love is dying.

That’s strength.

Not courage.
Endurance.

There’s a difference.
So if you’re up there,
if you’ve really been watching all this unfold,
don’t mistake my survival for faith.

Some of us keep going
because stopping would destroy the people left behind.

That’s all.

But I’ll tell you this honestly.

You’ve thrown enough at me now
that fear itself is starting to wear thin.

And that’s a dangerous thing to do to a man.

Because once somebody has carried
this much grief,
this much dread,
this many names in their heart,

they stop begging life for mercy.

They stand there half-broken,
half-furious,
looking straight into the storm

and dare it
to try again.