Sir G.

My poetry professor passed away last month. The alliteration isn't intentional. When I attended his funeral, I didn't cry.  When he died, I didn't even know about it right away. Something about his sudden passing felt rather fictional, and it wasn't that I didn't want to believe it. I just couldn't. So I didn't cry. And how could I? When I went to his funeral, I saw my crush's parents' names on the guestbook. I signed below their names. Though I felt terrible knowing the tendencies of my mischievous heart could lead me to feeling all kinds of happy things in unhappy times, I still wonder how--in spite of the event at hand--I couldn't get myself to physically cry. I'm not all that optimistic to always feel happy about everything. I cry, too. I cried when I failed creative writing. I cried about crushes who didn't like me back--and for crushes I could never see again. I cry not knowing why, how, and without question.

Today, I understand full well that he is gone. The emails I've sent him a long time ago--those emails about poetry and musings he promised to reply to--still lie somewhere inside by mail box, not replied to. He still hadn't heard me sing or see me achieve those writer dreams I once told him about or read my ars poetica--yet somehow, I still want to pursue all those things because we once talked about them and because I know he once looked forward to witnessing me do all those things.

Next month, his family will be holding his 30th day funeral at a church very near my place. I'll attend that one. Must I perform in that one? Read a poem or sing something?

It's not even a question of "do I want to" anymore, or of moral obligation. There's no reason to or for this. I will because he'd read us poems before. He taught us Sonnet 94, which became my favorite sonnet. I used to think 18 or 116 were the good ones--but no, 94 is a thousand times better, even better than 48, one of my first loves, and 15, my first love. Or maybe it could be 15's equal.

I've never read him anything.