Who’s Gonna Watch You Die?
Two men saw a yellow beyond what we see today. I hurt because of them — I hurt because I could be them, and because everyone I know is like them.
Death is not a tragedy — it is nature. Premature death is, still, just nature. Appointed death is different than normal. A sun setting at noon is nonsense.
I am unsure of what to say, though I know far too well that I should think certain ways. I don’t think in silence — though I’m supposed too.
I can not speak on why these men did what they did, but I do know that the fear of speaking out loud echoes silently and endlessly. I do not know why they did what they did, but I know roads.
Roads, today, are often the same. Heavily congested — they don’t side with the atypical. Roads are unforgiving. They are not mothers. Mothers forgive.
I lend my heart to mothers. How can we be what you are? There is such a danger in every breath and every atom — yet, mothers remain the strongest of our kind.
I don’t know if I will ever understand love in the way that a mother does. Loss, to me, will forever be minor, compared. For every glance I take, a mother takes two. For every inhale, my mother has twice breathed.
Today, I pray, regardless of belief, for the souls of all mothers. Two particular hit my mind — one face that I know, one that I’ve never seen. For two fathers — one on this plane and one not — I silently, slowly breathe. I think of my own — one whom I suffered. What if roles reversed?
For this, I do not know.
Dollars die. People, despite burials, never. We do not.
