Rearview

I want to tell you

all there is to know about 

how it ends. 

When you recite the story,

your instinct 

will be to call it names:

            a misstep. 

                 a bad dream.

                       a bloodletting. 

But you will look in the rearview

and remember it rose-colored.

You will remember it

like a long walk home—

the way you stop to wave at distal stars

once in a while, but never stop walking. 

Your hand will graze your heart, 

feel the scar, and pause. 

You’ll look down, softly, 

remind yourself 

to be where your feet are

while giving thanks

for where they have taken you,

for how you keep getting home.