A poem, in remembrance

The Room Where We Began Being What We Can

We fell asleep in the room and woke up in the room.

We flirted and laughed, confronted and asked.

We put our fists in windows and our feet in ventilation fans.

We counted our steps from one end to the other, touched two walls and came to the circle.

We sat beside one another in grief, offering shoulders, sighing in sync.

We washed each other’s feet. Climbed sunshine mountain.

We looked with soft eyes. Received March sunlight and November twilight.

We acknowledged absences, and felt their absence.

We ran too fast, stood on windowsills, chased invisible birds, danced to music only we could hear.

We reconsidered and wondered, and asked to be reconsidered.

We sculpted each other, surprised each other, mirrored each other, opposed each other.

We lifted each other toward heaven, led each other by the hand, painted each other’s names with our fingers.

We built castles, cradled heads, threw nets, formed statues, patterns, arrays.

We made choices. Crafted journeys from corner to corner. Listened to many five sentence long stories.

We stood on picnic tables and sang our questions.

We imagined lemon-scented washcloths resting on our tired eyes.

We remembered, honored, wept, accepted, negotiated, submitted.

We lifted our heads and saw the room.

We warmly embraced.

We rain-of-graced.

We took our time.

Yet we were gone too soon.

If only I’d known what a gift it was to be in the room.