if it was so terrible
if it hurt you so much
why didn't you stop?
why did you tell me that it was killing you?
why does that bother me?
why do i remember, so vividly
sitting in that particular taxi
on that particular day
in that particular poofy vest
and you on my right sitting so stiff, formal, determined
saying
"you don't know
people are so horrible
people will do anything
i don't think i can stand it anymore
i think i have to kill myself"
it took you a long time
but you did it
but why did you tell me?
because you wanted me to talk you out of it?
i don't think so
you weren't like that, convinceable
because you wanted me to protect you?
yes, i think in a weird way you thought that maybe i could break through the
barriers that you had set
the barriers that no one ever ever ever broke through
but i was yours
i would have the key
you would think like that
maybe
maybe i could make your life worth living
and i think in a way i could have
but not then
much earlier
it would have had to have been much earlier
when you watched me learn to walk
when you heard me laugh at your stories
then
then i might have saved your life
but in the taxi you knew
and i knew
we both knew
a death knell when we heard it and it rings in me still and i am sad and regretful
that there isn't anything anyone can do
when someone is determined to die
when someone can no longer see what there is beyond cynicism, games, manipulation,
those testosterone shenanigans
when someone can no longer see that it isn't about being right or winning or
being popular or sinning
it's just a minute-by-minute falling into the sun and burning with as deep and
enduring an intensity as possible
and you could have done that, at least i believed you had it in you
maybe that's what you wanted to hear me say
but i was only fourteen years old, not the burdened, stained, and worn fifty
of now
fourteen is not an articulate age for a young woman artist
fourteen is when i was still trying to figure out about french kissing
and mean teachers
and mothers who are vain and fathers who are even vainer
fourteen is not a good time to help a man convinced that life is not worth
living
but nevertheless i need to tell you that i am sorry that i was
not more evolved, more advanced for my age
i want you to know that i did hear you
that i do remember your pain
that i do know that there was a time that the world was so raw for you that
you felt you had to make a choice
to take the quickest route to anywhere but here
what i would do now?
i guess i would try and hug you and that makes me laugh because i know how much you would hate that
and it probably would have made not a jot of difference if i had told you what i thought because you were never one to listen much
have i worked myself around to forgiving myself for my silence? not quite
have i worked myself around to forgiving you for killing yourself? not quite
but neither of us really had a choice at that point we were immersed
in our fate
some days fate is a tidal wave sweeping you along and other days it seems like
the surf board is enough
like it will take you to land and friends and a good cold soda that won't give
you cancer
to a life that is not filled with betrayal and mistrust and revenge
some days are good days
other days are harder
and all days are emptier because you are not in them