All the Difference

2nd piece written as a meditation on the theme of guilt, this time, exploring survivor's guilt

I.

 

There was that dream, two years ago-

the one where you died, on the road,

on some all-too-normal kind of day

magnified by the incredible beauty it

is so easy to miss while rushing from one

obligation to the next; in some modern

created fear of sitting still. Of not making

some improbable quota that the world

tries to convince us, we owe. There is no

waiting now for things to come to us;

it is a choice only between dying by small

increments of obscurity, or blazing a trail

of light and love and frenetic motion across

multiple universes. Hoping that in at least

one. we have gathered enough chutzpah

to be remembered a year after we are gone.

 

Selfishly, I wondered, if you left this world

that suddenly, would anyone think

to even tell me? Questions one can never

ask of “just a friend,” so I do not.

 

And then, like that, our friend was lost.

Minutes after his last phone calls, I am told.

How many times have you and I traveled

that same route, without seeing it? The day

of my dream, I begged God to keep you here

longer, if only for my need of you. I offered

to go in your place. In this undersea world

of survivor’s guilt, we always wonder if

something we did, or did not do; or said

or forgot to say, could have made

all the difference. Somehow, if some small

weight we did not carry for each other

tipped a balance in this or another world

towards retribution. Or redemption.

 

II.

 

That too-close, too-real day in June, we were

all traveling. It could have been any of us;

it could have been all of us. Do we owe some

debt now, for not being chosen instead?

When I look for patterns in so many skies,

it seems too much like all the very best of us

are being drafted now into some celestial army

as God’s foot soldiers for hopelessly tilting

causes. The living bear the cost of what is left

behind, of redress. Maybe we are not, after all,

the lucky ones, in the face of so many coming

storms?

 

Answers I thought I knew yesterday,

escape me today. I cannot grasp all yet of how

much we have lost this year. I hold onto

what may be a child’s dream in a woman’s

body- that in some other universe tonight,

I am holding you in the same space, same

bed. We are on our way tomorrow, with our

friend, to plan one more project, put

something beautiful into motion. In that

world where the waters of Guatemala

run as clear as the skin covering our veins

and everything there is still left to say,

all that would make a difference in every

dimension.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

It has been a terrible year marked by several heart-wrenching deaths. Most recently, my friend and associate Victor was killed in a freak car accident while traveling to a job site. He was 35, and very talented in our field. he was for a long time the right hand person of my best friend. I dedicated this piece to all 3 of us. We were charged to write about the theme of guilt for our poetry club, and I chose to write of survivor's guilt.

Reviews

[charlie]

I find it remarkable that, with such a personal story as this, how well you are able to articulate your breath and sustain it all the way through. The artistry in that delivers a compelling piece, completely accessible to the reader.