One Night in Amber
We could not saver her, but we can savor the memory.
“Let her go” Was belting up to The mezzanine When you, swaying To the rhythm, Asked me to dance.
Every time with you Felt like the first— You made me laugh And I live there, Out of time, Whenever I get the chance.
Long draws After long days— Make our hearts light, And laughter easy, And everything Feels twenty-five again.
Little sister’s eyes glisten Against the album wall, Setting that burden down Just for the night.
And maybe that is Your special gift: This spell of happiness That opens doorways in the air.
Another day.
Life moved faster than any of use guessed, But never so fast we couldn't find some Joy and delight in the moment.
One night in amber that won't ever be again— Poured into memory To live forever.
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May 2024.
The night felt special, but not especially so. Not like it would be the last time we'd all sit around, laugh, drink, and dance. She had cancer then, but we were so sure she was going to beat it. We never really entertained any other possibility. She was going to be fine.
Maybe that's what happens when you tell yourself that over a long enough timeline, 'everything is going to be fine'. You come to expect that things won't get as bad as they can. That somehow life will stop short of the worst. Save you from the absolute longing of real absence.
Then you wake up at six in the morning, and she's gone.
The real kind of gone.
Not the kind where you wait two months and, poof, there she is again—a visage of loveliness. Trouble squared.
All you're left with is the memory.
And the hope.
The hope.
Hope springs eternal, they say, and you pick yourself up and count on your friends to help you through. Only it turns out you don't really have that component the way you thought you did. It turns out you're the one helping everyone else get through, and suddenly you can't pull the wagon anymore.
So, you sit in the shade and sip lukewarm water, waiting for the inevitable.
And you remember.
Being alone is unkind to memory.