When I die
I know there will be music played
Stringed guitars and violas
The fingers of my friends and daughters
Hands that I birthed
Intonating the way into the next

When I die
I know there will be poetry read
Sounds combined into words combined into measures combined into feelings that break and reassure your heart
Who knew that the ear was the direct line to mine?

Someone please read Timepieces by Andrea Gibson, that beautiful missive about going home, not to the end, but to eternity. “None of us have ever been our bodies, if we were how could we fit into each other’s hearts?”

That’s been my work here. Find yours, lend you mine, mix with your blood and your oxygen, offer relief. We carry each other this way, when it’s been safe enough to do so.

I am grateful for the hearts I’ve been entwined with. In my next life, if I’m able, I’ll do better at letting people in to mine, whose chambers were closed before I was born

Guarded, protected, armed against love that was not love. Armed against wounding masked as caring, like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and an apple in a brown paper bag packed by myself, everyday.

I was loved, but not in a way that didn’t also hurt.

But I didn’t keep that from carrying, from caring. I’ve tried my best.

To love.