My last post was written in anger without compassion, empathy, respect for those who live while their loved ones have committed suicide. I do not have the words. I try to hide from the feelings though that is not really possible without harm. To those that have lost a loved one, someone you knew, or anyone I apologize. I attempted a wrong-headed connection to too many sad life events.
by MARIE PONSOT
I don’t know what to say to you, neighbor,
as you shovel snow from your part of our street
neat in your Greek black. I’ve waited for
chance to find words; now, by chance, we meet.
We took our boys to the same kindergarten,
thirteen years ago when our husbands went.
Both boys hated school, dropped out feral, dropped in
to separate troubles. You shift snow fast, back bent,
but your boy killed himself, six days dead.
My boy washed your wall when the police were done.
He says, “We weren’t friends?” and shakes his head,
“I told him it was great he had that gun,”
and shakes. I shake, close to you, close to you.
You have a path to clear, and so you do.