when i die, i don’t want to see the light.

i want to see my grandmother

bringing me a chocolate milk sippy cup, and

i want to smell the cigarette

smoke that lingers in the fabric of her couch.

i wonder if death will be as gentle

as waking up next to the love of my life for the very

first time, soaked in golden honey sunlight.

i wonder if it will sting like the last goodbye

from my dad as he stepped out of my life

when it got too hard to balance his own.

i dream that dying will feel

like a hug from my mom, the kind

that tickles my nose with her unruly curls.

i dream that i’ll see my dog asleep

at the foot of my bed in the early grey

of a just-before-dawn morning.

i hope i feel the way i did when my grandpa

would scoop me up out of my car seat

while i pretend to sleep, that his once ailing body

will feel as strong as it did when i was small.

when i die, i hope i’ve lived enough that

there’s more to see than just the light.

when i die, i don’t want to see the light.

Abi Rhee