Those early weeks, you could have been anyone,
Too young for fingerprints, much less a name,
And years away from our first catch-and-toss—
A little flesh and blood, no brain, no bone,
No one to blame.
You did not count, you were not even close.
We do our best, over breakfast, over work,
To go back to the way things were before,
The way things never technically were not,
And we do. We’re fine. You left no lasting mark
We can’t ignore,
Just a small stain on the downstairs bathroom grout
That one bad day—the sudden blood, the panic,
The clotted towels, the cramped emergency room.
Then we were alone again, more living proof
That this is nature’s way, a swift, hygienic
Numbers game,
Which gives us all we need. Which is not enough.
—Matthew Buckley Smith
Image by Unsplash, licensed via Creative Commons. Image cropped.
