Lament

I kneel on the grass, weeding. There are no blooms to be seen, and I am a little angry at you for leaving this garden desolate. It is covered in brown leaves, fallen over all the nights you have lain, unconscious, in that scary-looking bed of yours, and you, breathing so softly as to almost be still--you have made your own garden out of those stern-looking tubes and little wires, the cold smell of medicine wafting around you like cold ether.

I pause and look at the chairs, the big tree, the empty basket, and I swallow the lump in my throat, willing the tears downward, downward. How abandoned everything looks! Where, the laughter and the conversation, where have our plans gone to?

In fact, dear friend, I am more than a little angry at you. You still owe me Prague, Paris, New York. You owe me pages and pages of stories. You owe me that autographed book in your shelf. How can you lie so still now, so changed, a stranger to all who love you? How can you be so distant from me, how can I not save you, you who once saved me?

I will pull out the weeds until my hands bleed. I will replace those tattered seat cushions with new ones--yellow, not brown. I will tend this garden until it comes back to life. I will read here everyday, dear friend, I will wait for you to come back.

Listen to all the people calling out your name in their prayers. You are so loved, so how can you lie, so still, unheeding?