Cease to be

The other day

I was looking at a photo

—a real photo—

of my mom and my dad and my brother

and another of

my partner, the love of my life,

and our dog

and I wondered if any of them miss me right now.

I wondered if they still think about me,

and, 

if they do,

do they think about me like I am

alive

or do they think about me like I am 

dead.

When I think about them,

I think about them like they are still alive.

I wonder what they are up to

and if they are happy

and I wonder if their favourite

meals are still the same,

if they have a new favourite record

or a new favourite book

or if they’ve found a new favourite chair.

I wonder if I am still alive

to them.

There are no new records up here.

There are no new books.

There are no new chairs.

There are no new favourite anythings.

I wonder if I am dead to anyone.

I always had a hard time putting my finger on

what it meant

for someone to be dead,

but I guess I have a pretty good understanding of

maybe

what that might be like now.