If
you look over there, no, over there,
by
the side of the road, where no one cares,
that’s
the place I lived, where I used to dream.
Dirt
is more comfortable than what it may seem.
In
the winter months, I would make a hut
from
wood and bones and ice and mud.
Sometimes,
people would be there with me;
we’d
comfort each other to not feel lonely.
I
remember there was one woman, she was so kind,
it
was like she was an angel sent down from the sky.
I
called her, ‘Grace’ because that name suited her.
Her
voice was a sweet melody with every word.
But
there was a day that Grace wasn’t there,
she’d
left a note with a lock of her hair.
I
picked up the note to read it out loud,
at
a time when the forest made not a sound.
It
read, “Dear little man, you know that I’ve gone.
I
have not done so for anything you did wrong.
I
simply had to go, it was past my time.
You
see, I was so sick; I just was meant to die.
I
had leukemia, I couldn’t pay for treatment.
My
parents treated me like I were a bohemian.
I
didn’t want you to have to see me go,
but
either way, there will be this pain you’ll know.
But
please don’t care that I had to leave,
and
please don’t you ever forget me.”
I
closed the note, and started to cry,
I
would’ve held her close when she would die.
Would
there have been a lesson from this?
Did
it teach me to try and savor bliss?
I
think not, because I still live in the place
where
there’s a note written by a woman named Grace.
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