History of Sorts

While cleaning up my laptop, I came across a poem I wrote some time ago. I was inspired to write it after receiving a card from my best friend, who had passed away on Valentine’s Day 2023. Though the card came from his family, it felt to me as if it had been sent straight from heaven.

Your mind tricked you to feel the pain
Of someone close to you leaving the game of life–Chris de Garmo

Postcard From Heaven

A postcard drifted down at dawn,
glittering like it had sailed
through the hush between heartbeats.
No address.
No stamp.
Only a feather-soft corner,
warm as breath against my hand.

On it, your message shimmered:
Close your eyes without surrender.
There is a place inside the dark
where light waits for you to notice it.

Your words felt like the quiet voice
that lives just behind dreaming—
the one that steadies my steps
when the world bends and blurs,
the one that shows me
that fear is only a door
that forgot it was open.

You wrote of a guide made of calmness,
a presence that walks the silver corridors
we travel when the mind loosens its grip.
A guardian not of heaven,
but of the gentle truth
hidden in each breath:
that we are never alone
even when we wander
inside our own storm.

The card glowed softly
as though it carried a sunrise
folded thin.
Your final line curled
like a hand reaching back for mine:
When the dream begins to tilt,
don’t run—shape it.
The light is yours to call forth.

I held the postcard to my chest,
and the room brightened
as if the veil between us
thinned for a moment—
long enough for me to feel you
guiding my trembling consciousness
into a quiet lucidity
where grief becomes gentle,
and love becomes a lantern
that never goes out.