What if we paid attention to all the
fleeting, unnoticed: Like that tiny leaf that swirls in the air,
briefly, before reuniting with the ground, lulled to
dreaming by gravity. The balloon, deflated from a child’s
loose grip and hidden from sight, hues long
faded from showers and shine, finding its home
among branches. What if we paid no attention to all the
permanent, conspicuous: Like the
silent moth that decides to land on the windowsill, visiting
temporarily but lost, forever, to another world. The
empty seat at the dining table, filled only by memory. What if we
looked past the past, stayed present in the present, and placed our
future in the future. Grandfather: the billowing cigar smoke you used to
detest most you now yearn to fill your body, even if it gave him
cancer. Aunt: the clear poison we enjoy at parties has already
emptied her. Mother: her thinning forest
bare from decades of neglect, from
broken marriage no supplement or shampoo is strong enough to
numb, let alone fix. What if warmth is all that is
needed. The two slam doors and
spill objects and swear under the breath and you
wince at screams, audible through walls. Her
friendships falter and fumble in
frustration, fatigue, fear—
and so we live.
Stronger, with every
fallen leaf, with every
trapped balloon, with every
short-lived moth, with every
abandoned seat that can be
filled once more.
