“Write your own poem in which you recount a childhood memory. Try to incorporate a sense of how that experience indicated to you, even then, something about the person you’d grow up to be.”
A date etched into my heart as though carved into glass. My eyes were stained with tears, and I turned to a notebook, searching for answers about why God robbed the world of ordinary men who did their best to love. I bled ink onto the page as I struggled for truth the night no one remembered as a young lost princess became unmoored.
In less than a month, unlike you to care about the wreckage of the Titanic that is my heart. I have witnessed you stampede on and trample me barefoot. Yet, the teeth you bared is what I have come to expect.
Family taught me (for better or worse) to murder with mercy. When you were flashing your baby teeth, sharpening like knives, I was practicing my smiles in polished glass.
Unlike you to offer condolences or express empathy, and yet, the past few days, while Lazarus has been in the tomb, a different side of you has been exposed.
Unlike you to show warmth, still a reptilian cold underneath, but the air is a bit milder now – less frost, less chill.
Unlike you to offer benevolence and yet, a crack of a smile, a beginnings of generosity.
Is it possible you were murdered by my mercy? Killed by my kindness?
Or did New Year’s resolutions just fall a few days behind on this calendar?
I’m not one to gaze the gift horse in the mouth, but I do have my suspicions when you were flashing those fangs, honing them like knives, and are now sweet as spun sugar.
Just call me Doubting Thomas if your kindness only lasts as long as Lazarus was in the tomb.
I remember a photo I saw of a two-hundred-year-old cherry blossom tree. I imagine the events it must have borne witness to: births, deaths, tsunamis, the rise and fall of empires, but still its branches spread with pink and red blooms. I wake up some mornings, an elegy for self on my cracked lips, gazing upon my scars and wondering why I’m still here. But to some, I’m still blooming and they don’t see the fractures I think define me. Perhaps I still have some life in me.
If a tree can withstand two-hundred years of storm and sun, I, too, can live and love a little longer.
Yesterday morning, I received an email with my edited manuscript. I was all prepared to dive into the edits and see how I could improve my writing before sending it back to the publisher for one more round of final edits.
Then, I read the email. The small press I had to decided to go with is shutting down as of January 1, 2025 and will not be publishing Catching Dreams.
In 2022, I lost a friend who was so dear to me. He called us “kindred spirits” and we talked up until a couple of days before his mysterious death. We were close, yet so much about him I felt I never knew.
He was gentle in the face of my storms and though he was soft-spoken, he fought his demons every day in a way that took more courage than I have. He was two days away from forty when he passed, and it’s easy to say that’s too young to die. His flame burnt out, but his memory will live on in all the lives he touched.
He described himself as an eccedentesiast, and I am too to some extent, but his smile, though it hurt him, was one of the things I will remember him for. He smiled through the pain. I cannot write a eulogy for him because I didn’t know him like that, but from what I did know, he was a beautiful person who filled the world with positivity, even when he himself felt bleak.
Just a few of the lessons he shared with me along the journey.
He was found dead in his sleep in 2022, and I’m not sure if his family ever got the closure they deserve from this. I hope they do because I know from experience how closure can aid in the healing process, even if you don’t think you’ll ever be able to breathe again without a person.
I have trouble forgiving myself for some of the things I said to him before he died – things said with the intent to help him to live before he died, things said not knowing he was going to die young – but now hopefully, he can finally set his burdens down and he can be at peace somewhere in the heavens.
The last few weeks before he passed, we spoke frequently and he wrote me a poem. In it, he said, “Even in the darkest of nights and days, I know I can rely on her always.”
He called me his pretty Italian girl and encouraged me to write when I felt like quitting. He taught me to appreciate the parts of me I found ugly. He swore he trusted me, but I wonder how much of himself he hid behind that smile.
We talked about getting a cup of coffee together one day and sharing our writing; now, I imagine he writes in the stars and smiles down on me. I don’t know if I believe in Heaven, but I know I believe he deserves peace.
Today would have been his 42nd birthday, and while I have to move forward, when I hear the Beatles on the radio in the car, I still roll down my windows and belt it out just for you.
Just ignore the fact that sometimes when I sing along, I get a little misty-eyed, thinking of you.
Isabelle Palerma 