Today, missing you
is like missing my own name,
like missing my arms,
like missing my skin.
The house too small
to hold it all,
I run outside
to feel cold, to feel
sun on my face, to
feel wind, to feel the day.
I want to remember this—
how I cannot live for one minute
without loving you.
I want to remember
how every street in our town,
every room in our home,
every cell of my body
is resonant with where you have been.
This morning, holding your sister,
I wanted to take all her pain away,
then thought how I would not want such erasure
for myself. Would never want to take away
for her that you were here. Would never want
to erase any of her love for you.
Whatever part of you was miracle and light
when you were here
is no less miracle, no less light.
And so this terrible invitation
to love what we love,
knowing it leads to loss.
Oh these awe-full sharp-edged days,
how they scrape, how they eviscerate.
Don’t let time make them soft.
I want to remember.