Shadow and Light, pt. 2

can i be

unmoored by the things

that uproot another?

can the quake hit me in waves?

it is, they are, all at once

delayed, instant, relentless.

i am outside but i feel it,

vibrations under my hands

and knees.

i won’t pretend to say

i know how it feels for you.

i know how my quakes feel,

but mine aren’t always like yours.

sometimes,

there is nothing for it but

silence, silence.

love. 

we are here for you.

i am here for you.

you are trying.

i am trying.

i see you.

(you are enough.)

someone once told me that

pain is a rudder.

there can be

direction in the

directionless.

i am unmoored but

so are you,

so let’s let God be the Rock

we cling to.

strangers came and

burned my aunt yesterday. 

well,

they didn’t really burn her,

just the shell she occupied,

just the shell she occupied.

perhaps,

for her,

and for me and my mom and dad also,

better to return to dust fast

once we’re already gone

than to decompose slowly,

slowly.

that has always been my dad’s

worst nightmare, after all --

not the death,

but the smell.

when you’re living,

it’s usually no cost

to breathe the free air, they say,

but businesses of death

don’t always think about that, do they?

no, if you want to watch a cremation,

just pick four others

to watch with

and if you want more,

you gotta pay $275

for every

extra

pair of lungs

still living,

still breathing

in that sterile air.

my dad stood by

my uncle’s side

as my aunt

(not her,

but her shell)

burned up in ashes,

in ashes.

how many times had she hugged him

through that shell

when he spent his early twenties

in their house?

how many times had she hugged me

through that shell

when we alighted back

in that house?

and maybe she is now

hugging the universe

through any ashes that

escaped the urn,

and shot up towards the sun.

my parents called me after,

relaying the change in the state of her shell

in a matter-of-fact way.

how was it? i tried to ask,

softly.

we were never that expressive

when it came to grief.

maybe i asked too softly.

the conversation soon turned

to other things,

like ashes that drift away.

gone with the wind,

maybe to return,

or maybe to never come back,

like lives that --

slowly or suddenly --

drift,

like ashes,

away.

these are the bones we carried

these are the candles we lit

these are the ashes we blew

these are the flowers that bloomed

these were the dreams that turned to dust

these were the nightmares that came to life

these were the quiet sobs that cried for help

these were the hollowed eyes that stared out dull

these will be the memories we will make

these will be the songs we will sing

these will be the leaves that whisper awake

these will be the limbs that rise once again.

can tiredness swallow you up

like a vine,

does it climb on your walls,

does it pull you under.

one vine is now many. i

can’t think can’t think. 

if i think

it’ll spin spin spin

into voices, 

keep at it -- again

i don’t want to feel -- again

i’m scared -- again

i won’t ever get it

out of my mind -- again

they cry

i cry

we cry

please

my algorithms professor says 

correctness 

is a dance 

between safety 

and liveness. 

if i walk a tightrope daily, 

tiptoeing through the dark, 

one hand on a gossamer thread 

that twists through time and space

am i correct, too? 

am i a player in a proof, 

a set of instructions with

a collection of disjuncts, 

a set of instructions with

a collection of conjuncts? 

'too complex to solve

in polynomial time,' 

they could say,

pen plunged in

a set of infinities,

a set of 

actions and conditions and 

sensations and

breath.

I want to tell you

it’s safe to love me,

that I’ll never step

over the boundaries,

that I’ll see them and

know them and

know when to hold on

and when to let go of you.

That I’ll know

what to say,

what to do.

That I’ll never

hurt you.

But as I go through my day,

I think of you.

Despite if people think it’s

right or wrong,

or you’re there or not,

that's just what I do.

Sometimes,

(if you’re there,)

I talk to you,

my chaotic energy

rolling out,

drifting back,

roaring back in force.

Ebbing back and forth

as I smile and laugh with you.

Sometimes,

I talk about you,

stories on my tongue,

of joy and of amusement 

and (much less often)

of sadness and of fear.

That’s just one way

I care about you.

And sometimes,

(shall I say it?)

once in a while,

I stumble across 

an unexpected reminder --

a similar face, a wished-for place --

and I

miss you. 

I do let go, I promise.

And I bite my tongue

over and over

because I know one of us

must again bid adieu.

I want to tell you

I love you

with a care that is true,

and

that whether or not

you’d say you love me,

I profoundly appreciate

each moment I share with you.

But the best I can do is

to silently promise I’ll do my best

to walk the lines

you adopt

from others

and for you --

(at least, when following those lines

is the right thing for me to do) --

to make it safe

for you to care

and for me to care 

for you, too.

i guess if you are a parent 

who has thought that you would or could die

when your kids were not grown

it’s more than natural to look at

every day,

every breath,

as a gift to be cherished

(maybe even as

borrowed time).

and

i think if

i should have a

greater chance to die,

i would say the same thing you did --

look at what i’ve experienced,

what God has done through me.

my life is full;

don’t you worry about me.

but standing here

on the outside?

i look mutely at you.

i know that while

you are someone to me,

i am no one to you

(‘cause that’s how it should be,

i guess).

i am

no more than the kid

whom you let through your door,

no more than the kid

whom you divest advice to,

whom you teach to fix bikes,

whom you show life lessons to.

but looking at you.

it’s like i see a train

and there’s nothing i can do

to stop the crash.

(at least i know it’s not

inevitable, even if it is

possible.)

but i see the other crashes too

for which there was 

nothing i could do.

maybe people would say,

let it crash if it does.

i even said once,

the pain doesn’t have to be

beautiful,

but

beauty can

come out of the throes.

so now on this path, 

should it go down that way,

i don’t beg you to stay

(in a way, 

in the summer,

you did

already stay)

and i don’t say

“papa,

please”

or go and run away.

but

i treasure

every moment,

every laugh,

every joke,

every tear

as you teach me

to live without fear.

because these moments --

whether they end

tomorrow

or in many many years --

are all i can ask for:

these moments here.

If I told you I was scared.

Would that be the tiredness talking,

the 13 hours of sleep after the 3 hours,

the one cup of pink lemonade

that substituted for caffeine?

Or would it be the stress of the week,

the I have several things to do and

I don’t know how I’ll do them,

the I don’t know how I’m going

to do this.

Would it be the nightmare 

that a store was robbed --

the please, I don’t have anything,

I promise,

the please don’t hurt me,

the can we please go outside,

away from here,

I know we can’t do anything

but we thought 

someone would be shot again

just a few days ago

and I just need to take a breather,

the I wasn’t scared last time

but I was scared then

because I had someone to be

scared for,

the can you just listen to me,

please.

Would it be the thoughts I said --

the I don’t want to lose you,

the we shouldn’t have to

message our loved ones,

hands shaking

to tell them to go inside,

or the thoughts I didn’t say --

the if you chose to leave

or if you were taken from me,

I wouldn’t be

surprised,

not after everything else,

but it doesn’t always make it

any better,

the sometimes I ride highs

and then I crash,

the maybe I’m being too dramatic,

I’m sorry.

You told me once

that it’s okay to struggle,

that we live in a high dimensional space

where our coordinates change

day to day.

So I’ll remember that,

and I’ll continue to pray.

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” (Philippians 4:6)

if i told you i was scared

would you laugh at me?

would you tell me i shouldn’t care?

or just that i shouldn’t be scared?

would you tell me that i’m neglecting

the one thing i’m expected to do?

the one thing -- to work hard,

to make good grades.

work hard, they say.

you work so hard, say others.

if i told you i was scared

would you say i wasn’t strong?

foolish, weak, a little girl

caught up in worries.

a little girl who found a granddad.

a little girl so eager to love.

is it selfish to love?

what is love?

could it be laughter

and inside jokes

and writing on the wall?

could it be pain, too,

and the painless mundane as well --

the how are you,

the you don’t have to be strong for everyone.

what is faith?

does it live with the adrenaline?

the prayer, the cries,

the bothering God over and over,

the it’s okay,

the just come home,

the i don’t want to lose you.

what is fighting?

does it lie in prayer,

in peace, and in rest?

does it lie in tips on living

and raucous songs

and jokes about death?

the a dead man 

has nothing to lose,

the we’re in it for the parking,

the if worse comes to worst,

we make the most we have

of time with the people we love.