You are the first to die, the only one so far (if someone
else left without telling me, it wasn’t before you, the first, the first
everything), and now you are gone seven years already, and when I learned—just
before—that you were dying (actively dying, a matter of hours, days), I kept a
secret vigil, sending you thoughts, wishing you had replied that last time I
wrote, wishing we could have been some sort of friends, hoping for someone to
let you know that I knew, hoping on your death bed you would just know that I knew, and then, when
out for an oh-so-festive Chinese New Year dinner with the usual suspects, welcoming
the Year of the Snake, my phone vibrated with the inevitable text and I silently slinked to the restroom to
cry, but it was a bad restroom for crying (no lock on the door, a single stall
across from a public sink, almost certain interruption), so instead I shed my
skin, slithered to the mirror, and studied my new self’s sheen—altered, because
you are the first to die.
Shivers. This poem (you sneaky one, sliding one in and pretending it is just prose!)...don't let it go just yet. Circle back around. There's so much here.
ReplyDeleteoh oh oh. How dare you be intimidated by anyone else's writing--you can knock the socks off your readers with these one-sentence prose poems. I bow, barefoot, before the undisputed master of this literary form.
ReplyDeleteOh oh my. Please keep this up.
ReplyDeleteThe details in the moment when you learn that your life will never be the same in a way that no one else will know.
I read this a few days ago and had no words for a comment. I am not sure I do now. I think I remember you mentioning this when it happened, but of course I didn't know the relationship. But I agree with the rest of our friends, this is so beautiful.
ReplyDeleteI'm sorry I'm so late. You got me all weepy. It is, as Kim said, a poem, and a beautiful, heart-breaking one at that. Perfect use of the one-sentence post. I bow once again to the master. And send hugs.
ReplyDelete