Passports

When we go, when we get there, 
the place we were going, 
the place we ended up. 
The dream my husband had 
when he was dying of cancer–
the house in ruins. Us hiding 
behind crumbling walls and now
  
standing in line at the post office
waiting to take passport photos. 
It’s been five years since we stood, 
a family of four, waiting here. 
Now, I submit new documents–
official death certificates. 
One for each of our daughters. 
 
Why did you leave us?  
This is the form I have to fill out 
to apply for my grief passport.
This is the form 
and if I cross anything out, 
I must start over. This is 
a reminder that it’s just me, 
me and two little girls and I
 
can’t mess this up. There was 
a roof that collapsed, 
a floor that crumbled. There is 
a lady, holding a camera, 
who says don’t smile and the drip, 
drip of the chemotherapy 
traveling through you like 
a lost tourist. Where she asks, 
annoyed I skipped a section
where do you plan on visiting?

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