Grief, in all forms, in all ways, changes you. I am not afraid of spiders—they crawl, and they creep, and they dangle from their long lines of gossamer webbing, and they watch me. I pay them no mind—oftentimes, I let them pass, slide, slip; I keep my hands by my sides. We coexist, the spiders and I, as real animals do.

But in a few very short weeks, I have lost people—a woman I have dearly loved, for always, and although her husband is a poet, I know he’ll allow me this grammatical error just this once, to contain the depth of her and me. A boy, or a man, or something cooler, something that bubbles with condensation where memories I don’t know about left him cold. And myself—a piece of me has become “her,” a girl I no longer know or am.

This has changed me. I am not afraid of spiders—they stare, and they curl, and they scuttle on a multitude of legs, and they supposedly jump all over you while you sleep. Today, tonight, a spider joined me on the bed I slept on as a child and now sleep on as something barely more than that. It stared at me with its minuscule eyes and rubbed its pincers together. Today, tonight, the idea of such close companionship in the wake of such loss, the desire for it, was so strong I almost let it crawl, creep, scuttle, and slip right into my mouth, behind my molars, and into my chest, so its strings of white webbing could make cobwebs where my heart is.

So you want to talk about the meaning of life? There are many people telling you what your life should mean. More importantly what your time should be, because what is life except time and consciousness? Some people say your time is money. Some say it is time to be as happy as you can, or maybe as successful as you can. I think that the desire for meaning is byproduct of consciousness. I think that the lines the frost makes on my window in the morning are magnificent, and we only have so many days to observe them. 

my walk home.

the 4 p.m. sunset already lighting the shamash on the horizon,

melting the mountains like orange wax.

lunch with my friends, onion rings & coconut yogurt

& all the trash rolled in a fist-sized silver ball.

the bag of chocolate-covered pretzels 

next to me as i write this, the good kind from trader joe's.

the miracle of a sated stomach.

my best friend's face as she spells aristocracy

without looking at the sheet, a mask of total concentration.

the press-on nails gracing my fingertips,

a hanukkah-esque checkered blue.

my torah portion flowing smoothly from my mouth.

and when it doesn't.

and the child on the sidewalk, staring wide-eyed at the darkening sky.

and the menorah burning with four candles tonight,

flickering like a miracle lit again and again and again.

I went to work the day after they announced it. I stocked the shelves and listened to the radio from the speakers in the warehouse ceilings. Cars were piling up at the exits, trying to get out of town. I don’t know where they thought they were escaping to. They couldn’t get off the planet no matter how far they drove.

I worked until my eyes got heavy like they always do, and then I worked until one a.m., long after the store was supposed to close, and then I clocked out. I went home and threw my television out the window, and then I called you on the phone. I wanted to ask you about that time you were over for my birthday, when everything was blue for lifetimes and lifetimes, and we stayed up until the sunrise. I wanted to ask you if it was real or just a dream I had.

All of the lights were on in my apartment. I had left them on this morning because I was worried I would be in the dark when it happened. I was afraid of the dark. After the dial tone rang about eight times, you picked up and breathed for a minute. I did too. I lay back on my bed too and just breathed into the receiver for as long as you breathed. Then you said, “Did you leave home?”

I said “No. I want to be home when it happens.”

You said, “Good.” Then we breathed for another minute, and after that minute, you said, “Are you still with what's his name?”

I laughed and said, “No.” You laughed too. I said, “No, I’m not with what's his name anymore. Hey, do you remember my 12th birthday? It was the one where you slept over, and we stayed up way later than we were allowed to?”

You exhaled and said, “God, I don’t remember anything. I can’t remember a god damn thing. You wanna know where I am right now? In my bathtub. I’ve been here since they announced it.” You laughed, “The water’s fucking freezing.”

I inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled again, then said, “Well, I’ll just let you go.” I took a last breath before I hung up, but you said, “Can you tell me about it? So it feels like I remember?”

“Well,” I said while I tried to breathe without my voice breaking, “You had that stupid buzz cut.” This made you laugh. I looked at the clock and saw that it was getting close to the predicted time. I got the clock down off the wall and smashed it.

I inhaled and said, “We snuck out and bought as much candy as we could from the gas station, and we brought it back to my room,” I exhaled, “and we watched Instagram reels until we couldn’t hold our eyes open anymore,” I inhaled, “and right when we were about to sleep, we kissed for the first time.” I held my breath so that I didn’t cry.

You laughed shakily and said, “What? We never kissed.” But even as you said it, you inhaled hopefully. I said, “I don’t care. I want us to have kissed. So we kissed. You kissed me, and I kissed you back. And then we kissed each other more.” 

Only seconds remained now, and you said, “I want that too." Exhale "Yeah." Inhale, "Okay. That can be true.” Then, while you laughed (with joy, I think,) our phone speakers began to melt and boil. I inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled...

...and, while the world ended, I sent you a text message that said I will love you forever.

I will be someday, 

gone, 

that is. 

When I am, 

I hope the pine needles still grow thick 

covered thick 

with snow. 

I hope the air still whistles 

with sledding calls 

whipping along with it. 

And I hope I have left 

all that I can give. 

I hope my hands 

are tired from writing rebellious words 

and squeezing friends' hands tight 

swinging them in the summer holding in the winter 

and building up the bridges with my hands 

that will lead us together 

and calloused with dirt from trails others taught me 

trails I made for others

trails I learned to walk with my chin up.

I hope my breath

is just a whisper, then

having said many words of change

and fought many battles with my voice

and read aloud poems and books to cousins curled up on the couch,

someday children and grandchildren,

words I read with my voice strong.

I hope my legs are tired

from racing running pedaling skiing

pushing to the limit

coming back

and carrying groceries up the stairs after long days

and bouncing babies smiling up at me

and long days in the cold

days I spent walking onward.

I hope I leave

tired

content

having given

given all I have

until I am tired to my bones

and my heart has loved

and my hands have held.

I've never been a fan of Four-Letter Words,

never seen the need for profanity,

and thought swears showed a lack of self control,

Now, I haven't changed my mind

but four-letter words are more than curses,

they are the black and white

Because Hate is a Four-Letter Word,

but so is Love

and Fame and Pride are under the same branch as Hope and all things True

Easy and Hard

Fast and Slow

because to Take and to Free are opposite things

so maybe Four-Letter Words aren't all black or all white

but I don't think they are grey either

maybe Four-Letter Words are the contrast

that helps us to see 

how similar Love and Hate can be

Walking through an art museum, 

reading all the signs, 

try to trace back the thought process, 

paid parking's outta time, 

leave with paintings stuck inside my head,  

feeling finally more alive than dead, 

I have so many ideas,

Melpomene, Urania,

music and movies,

drawings and stories,

once I have paper my life won't be boring,

I'll write while the rest of my family's snoring,

and novel and poetry will just be pouring,

out of me,

but you see,

blank paper sucks all my ideas up,

tragedy, comedy, don't give a duck,

and once I am drained,

my mind and my brain,

tells me I need to write music!

The death of ideas,

is born on blank pages,

someone once said to

draw smiley faces,

so I won't be frightened,

to ruin more sketchbooks,

honestly it's paper,

if left blank it's wasted,

but my brain says everything

has to be perfect,

if it can't be optimal,

my soul'd be worthless,

so i'll keep on staring,

at spine-chilling cold-press,

with tons of ideas,

all tied up and restless.