Final Gift
Years ago, in a dream, I found an alabaster
door on the other side of the sky, before
the first redbud flowers bloomed. I couldn’t
open it then, but there was light peaking
through the keyhole. I watched many pass
through the door, porcelain specters couldn’t
see me for the misty silver clouds, reflecting
morning dew-rays of half-hidden suns— all
wore bone-keys around their necks tied in red.
On his deathbed, my father started to glow. A
final breath, wove like a needle, shimmering,
around his ragged neck. Sparkling red, shiny
white key, hitting the middle of his chest—
he was gone. Four years passed in the mist,
until I found that door again—my father
before it, patient like a cedar tree, held out his
unwrinkled hand, and gave his thread to me.
Tia Cowger is a graduate of Eastern Illinois University with a minor in Creative Writing. A poet since a young age, her work has been published in The Examined Life Journal, Gone Lawn, Sheila-Na-Gig, The Coffin Bell Journal, Passengers Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The Pointed Circle, The Write Launch, and more.