Offertory- for the Bell family
I keep wishing I knew how to write about things that aren’t about me. I don’t know how to do it, to write without the words tugging at my heart, to write with logic, objectivity, detachment. The things I write are hopelessly inescapable of myself; pages documenting ways in which I love, hurt, feel, react. This one is no different.
But this one is for her, too.
The NY Times told the story in plain type, in detached synopsis, in as much depth as journalism will allow. Except between the type, I heard fifty bullet shell casings splinter midair, chests heaving into nothing, the shattering sound of a gavel denouncing justice yet again. I felt how her knees must have buckled, how her sobs must have gotten caught in her lungs in a lurching knot, the collapse inside as she told, “They killed Sean all over again”.
I read about her, about him, about them. My heart clenches an angry fist inside me, tears stinging the side of my eyes, mourning for a woman who became a widow before she became a bride. How many like her? How many more? How many times will justice fail us?
I can’t write about her without feeling. Can’t think of her without emotion, without imagining if she will harbor painful memory into muscle, into reflex, if pain will default as her means of second nature. I want her children to grow without fearing love, without inheriting the instinct to distrust, without inheriting grief. I can’t think without being angry, without disappointment, without frustration. I want to do more, want to write more poems, want to protest, want to…something.
But this isn’t about me, I keep remembering.
No, this is for Nicole. For her, to whom I offer these words, prayers, and eyes facing God. Tonight I will pray for her, pray for justice, for us. For us so that we might all learn to feel for each other, to live without detachment, connected.
