Dear Life …

Posted on Posted in Poetry

Dear life,

I know that you are going to bring me pain, I know that you are going to bring me suffering, I know that you may even take my life, or the lives of those who are close to me, but I want you to know that I am ready, as much as I am able to be, and that I too will be bringing you something …

For all the tears that you bring I will cry every last one and then some. For all the grief that you bring I will mourn, and wail, and howl harder and deeper than I have ever done, out of gratitude for yet another love that has come, and pierced my heart and gone.

For every grain of sand of every dream that you draw through my fingers in spite of me, as the hour glass of my life slips away from me, I will remember every creator unable to sing their song because of life’s drudgery, so that I can love every waitress a Marie Curie, every road sweeper a Dostoyevsky, every single mother a Mary.

For every day that you offer me the same monotony and tedium, the same gestures, minutiae and triviality, I will bring you my appreciation for creating me from nothing, for having been 14 billion years in the making, so that brushing my teeth can remain an opportunity, washing my dishes a novelty, doing my laundry a cosmic poetry.

For every one that you bring to cut me off in traffic, to speak to me rudely, to engage with me violently, when I am raw, and weak, and unable to conduct myself gracefully, for every blow that you deal to me through a stranger, friend, or family member unjustfully, I will remember that I am merely facing a fragment of myself that yearns to have their pain witnessed lovingly, to be offered forgiveness even if it must be done silently, to be told yes, and no simultaneously, so that the pain of separation and pleasure of reintegrating me can be carved into the stone of their memory.

For every one that you take from me, for every fire that you extinguish in spite of me, I will be grateful to you for reminding me that my most precious blessings are all merely on loan to me, that my greatest love is simply the dawn of the dusk of my greatest tragedy, and that my deepest mourning is merely the fruit of my highest calling maturing and falling, so that I can love not to avoid pain, but to honor it’s second coming, so that its loss will have been worth it, so that my broken heart will be its last will and testament.

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