To You Who Died Seven Years Ago:
It’s gotten darker since you left us.
When the Towers fell in on themselves, into those two black holes, a part of us went with you down into the graves. I can’t say exactly what it was: a little light perhaps.
When the five-sided star of power burned among impossible flames, something in us went up in those flames: a little light perhaps.
When that empty field swallowed your brave hearts, something in your brilliant fearlessness entered us: a little light perhaps.
I never met you. I wish I did. I’d offer you bread and wine. Sit down with you, palm-to-palm, and share communion.
After seven years our bodies changed entirely. All those molecules in the bodies of those of us who remain are gone, gone with the dust that you became. The turning of our world replaced them with entirely new particles. We are resurrected, bit by tiny bit. Bits of you are now in us.
Our world has gotten darker since you left us. Little by little, day by day, the tiny circulating bits of ourselves are gathering together to fill the darkness around us: a little light perhaps.
