The cotton is in full bloom,
billowy white bursts against red earth.
So unaware, I laughed
as he began to weep.
Me on one side, him on the other.
He will not see the cotton fields.
I think of the time when I will leave here.
About what will remain when I am gone.
I think of the parts of me that live here,
that have made a home in this newness
and find comfort in the tragedy.
And what of the metal drawers brimming
with yellowed papers and bent file folders?
What of those -- will they remain, a silent
reminder of who became lost and
of who could not become?
Yesterday I paused while filing yet another.
There were so many, and I had to breath.
Because paper is never really just paper.
And the cotton will float freely over the fields.
billowy white bursts against red earth.
So unaware, I laughed
as he began to weep.
Me on one side, him on the other.
He will not see the cotton fields.
I think of the time when I will leave here.
About what will remain when I am gone.
I think of the parts of me that live here,
that have made a home in this newness
and find comfort in the tragedy.
And what of the metal drawers brimming
with yellowed papers and bent file folders?
What of those -- will they remain, a silent
reminder of who became lost and
of who could not become?
Yesterday I paused while filing yet another.
There were so many, and I had to breath.
Because paper is never really just paper.
And the cotton will float freely over the fields.