He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man. ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery
I.
The trees sing lullabies,
but my heart closes its ears to them.
The night is broken-winged
thing;
it twitches like a shadow.
Once, the birds were there,
and now they’re not.
I spend all my poems
looking for the end of the tunnel.
II.
A train passes by and my picture frames ratttle.
Imagine.
All those tired travelers looking out their windows,
not knowing that they were heard.
That someone, somewhere,
waits for them.
III.
Once words,
and now,
none.
IV.
I meant it when I said
lonely.
When I said
some days,
it feels
the whole world wants
my silence.
Today would have been my baby sister’s 37th birthday. I still remember the day she was born. It was the first day of 4th grade for me, and my grandfather came to school to tell me that I had a new sister. I always joked that it was amazing that I wanted to have children of my own after seeing her as a baby– she was a fussy, cranky child– and I adored her.
I don’t know if it will ever make sense to me that she is gone. I do know that losing someone close to you who is younger than you makes you really face your own mortality. When my son was growing up, I worried what would happen if I died. Legally, he’d have to live with his father, and I knew he never wanted to do that. Now, I just have somewhat morbid thoughts like, I’d better put away my laundry now so in case I die today, no one else will have to take care of that. I think a lot about what we leave behind when we die.
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