an example

Listen. Even if you can’t recover.

Even if you wake up tired of trying, aching and spent.

Even if your dreams get lost. Alone or jealous, cold or sick.

Even in the crush of grief and stolen time.

When death comes breathing close:

You are still beautiful. Your love is too.

You are the proof of it.

Sometimes I think that I could fall in love with anyone.

I see them born, reborn, a wailing scrap of someone else’s dream.

This time, this one, will have more luck. This one will fly.

Even the broken, hateful ones.

Maybe if I’d found them crying on some curb

at eight years old and cared, might they now see?

I don’t believe that anyone is ever lost to love,

though with enough damage the door to love’s arrival disappears.

I’m not sure that my father, for example, has ever hugged me.

I know a man who took a bullet and died, blocking the woman he loved.

For example.

I know a man who huddled in his bedroom in the middle

of the night after he crashed his car.

He ran off as another bled.

I know a homeless guy who used to squat outside his tent

and smoke and preach the dignity of loss.

You could buy a wheelchair for his friend Mama if you’re lucky.

For example: Luck travels.

You think you’ve got no voice.

But then you give your boots away.

Hand on heart you let the sorrow out, and in.

Sweetheart, you say. Of course it hurts.

In the South they call me honey still, no matter how old I get.

They’ll pray for you, if you believe in God or not.

The world need not be beautiful for you to be.

God bless your quiet ways, your sassy mouth, your secret tears.

You’re gorgeous.

For example, you are my proof of hope.