A List of Unimportant Things That Make Me Cry

Seeing that half architect-half mad engineer handwriting
scribbled on an envelope from 2001.
Passing a rickety billboard grandpa dreamed up,
the first one in Cincinnati attached to a building,
now a headstone reminder.
Dear dad, I say every time I pass it on the highway.
All of the songs my father saw himself in,
repeating over speakers at breweries
because that’s the only kind of place that will
play 10-minute guitar solos.
I’ll cry anywhere when I’m caught unaware.
On a plane. In front of girl scouts. I’ll cry over anything.
Today it’s over touching an old trumpet.
Tomorrow, I’ll probably see a tree swaying
in a gas station parking lot and feel how lonely
it’s become. The next day, running water.
Time heals nothing: I will tell my daughter this
when she is older. I’ll look into her eyes, hold her shoulders
firmly. Unless she finds out first on her own.
One day she will ask me how a vase is different
than an urn, and I’ll need to have flowers ready.