on the drive down the old
highway toward home,
saw a family, maybe
a neighbor-friend
or two sitting
at a picnic table,
sitting there
in the heat, grateful
for the grace
of what little shade the
maple was putting out.
It’s a picnic table,
but no picnic, just
weathered benches holding
up a few wobbly humans
in the middle of a Saturday
in early June, a day too
beautiful for this.
They must be remembering
and lamenting, looking for
a bright side to this gaping hole
of a loss beyond understanding—
why this, why now, and what
would they do
after sitting
with the remains?
Would there be some tribute
to this friend and protector
so suddenly lost to them,
I wondered, as I began
to feel the pull
deep in my belly
wanting to turn around,
drive right up the red clay ribbon
into the yard and stop my car,
walk right up and put a hand
on the shoulder of every one
of them, wrap my arms around
anyone who would let me.
My heart begged to look
into their eyes and say,
“I’m so sorry, so sorry."
I didn't turn around though,
did not go back, did not give them
the moment’s relief I might have given
by shifting their attention to this
strange white woman who came
into their midst and asked if she could
give them a hug; they might
have shaken their heads, or scratched them,
maybe had a good laugh on me
once I headed home again.
That would have been the least
I could offer
the least I could have given—
but I knew the price I'd pay
for getting out of the closed car,
putting myself among the mourners:
trying to breathe
head throbbing with smoke
still rising and spreading
from the rubble
that only yesterday
they had called home.
**************************************
It's one week later, and I headed back up the road, stopping to take pictures.
Most of the charred remains were gone — so were the people at the picnic table. The steps standing alone and leading to nowhere made my stomach clutch; two trees stood respectfully, offering comfort.
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