There once was a lake 

In love with the moon, 

Astonished by her voice, 

In love with her melodious tune.

She would sing and shine.

He would dance slowly, making waves.

He would whisper, “Be mine.”

But she could never hear.

The lake would still marvel,

And say, “Thou art most beautiful to me.”

He would stare at the moon and smile,

Even though she couldn’t see.

He sang and danced and loved and dreamed.

She could not know he was there.

His love she left bare.

Though he never gave up, as hard as it seemed.

And one night,

As the moon was gazing softly down,

He whispered to her,

Hoping he would be found.

A whisper, and yet,

An utter of a word,

“I love thee,” he said,

Though still was not heard.

And the lake watched as the moon turned away,

So that the sun could shine, and bring the light of day.

And the lake felt a hurt,

Deep in his depths,

A hurt and a horrible pain,

And so he wept.

He cried,

His tears overflowing.

He cried,

Without the moon knowing,

Without the moon knowing his love for her.

With the lake knowing he would never be heard.

And yet,

That night,

The moon rose.

She gazed with a smile upon the world,

Then it turned to concern.

For she saw the lake,

Crying and hurting.

“What is wrong?” she asked, gentle and caring,

“Has someone done something to thee?”

The lake looked up,

Eyes filled with tears.

“Yes,” he replied,

“That someone was thee; thou did something to me.

Thou opened my heart and my mind and my soul.

Thou gave me something; you’re a sight to behold.

Thou gave me love.

Thou gave me peace.

Although I spoke to thee above,

You never seemed to hear me.”

The moon gazed down upon him, feeling ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Now what have thou said? What were the words thou spoke?”

The lake looked up at her, smiled, and uttered a word,

“I love thee,” he said,

And this time was heard.

The moon smiled and shone,

Her light divine,

A twinkle in her eye.

“I love thee as well,” she whispered.

She did love him.

And so they were never apart,

Her light reflecting off his waters.

He had stolen her heart.

And so with hearts that were born to mend,

I think we shall call this love story an end.

The cymbals clashed. The audience erupted. The lights flipped on. And then, it was time for us. Time for the dozens of hours we had spent practicing to pay off in three minutes. As the previous group exited the stage, I took a deep breath in, held it, then exhaled through my mouth. Then we were on, walking onto center stage. Some of us played to get it over with, but I wanted to play to captivate the audience. I wanted to perform. With the bright lights shining in my eyes, surrounding my body in a warm spotlight, the crowd went silent. My guitar was in hand, the microphone turned on and turned up, ready for showtime. I turned around, gave the signal, and counted us in. Then, I played the opening notes. My fingers immediately took charge, flying across the fretboard, sculpting the sound as it hit the audience, full of emotion. Then the sound of my voice filled the room before I knew it, reciting the words I had practiced time and again. But this time, I knew it was different. There was power in the powerful moments, sorrow in the sorrowful moments, and regret in the regretful moments, though I felt none of those emotions. I felt transcendence. As it came time for my guitar solo, I slid my index finger up to the A on the low E, playing an A minor scale—but it felt like more than just noodling with the strings in A—I was gliding through the melody, my fingers doing the singing for me. I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore. Then, before I knew it, it was time to sing the last verse. The song ended with the clashing of the cymbals, the erupting of the audience on their feet, and the lights turning on. We walked off the stage, and made way for the next group.

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.