This week, someone I know died. Lots of people died, but I only knew one of them this week. Other people I know or had met probably died, too…but, I don’t know about their deaths.

In the days following my learning that someone I knew had recently died, I fell back a lot on my pre-existing belief that we never ever die. In my understanding of things, we do live forever and we are, though we may not be aware of it, infinitely held accountable for our actions and what we bring to the world in the simple maths of creation and destruction, what comes about from our stories and what we do within them.

There is no magic potion that could keep these bodies alive forever.

They get old, they slow down, the processes of regeneration cannot keep up with the processes of disintegration, the weakened cell walls, the damaged systems, the balance between poison and water.

We get old. We get hurt. We get sick. We die.

…but the part of us that is most truly who we are lives forever.

This isn’t some flimsy  conception of the soul, but a simple conclusion about electricity and how it behaves  in the world.

It doesn’t just disappear. It couldn’t.

We never die, we just make some stories and then go on, finding our way into whatever we may find our way into…wind, leaves, animals, the firstflash lightning of a child being conceived right this very minute.

Here’s an older post about how I figure that we never die, a thought that gives me great comfort: http://proofofgodandothertragedies.net/2012/03/29/what-happens-when-we-die/

In the Spring
everything was names
and numbers
messages sent
at the same time
and the way
the most simple ‘hello’
can sound so familiar
… when I’m on my porch
alone
for all of May
with the songs
about songs
saying something
about turning
my back
on a friend
and me trying to figure out
who I was turning on more
…when it was all over

it was only mein spite of
that white bird
that blue shirt
the layers of shadow
the long slow thaw
and how we danced
through those months
of too-short days
when you held me
at a distance
on the thin, thin ice
and I tossed so many words
over my shoulder
into dark circles
as you spun away
and back
away and backthere’s no such thing
as wasted time
And even though
I never did find out
if you could slow down
the clock
And even though
that makes me sad
I don’t believe
in right or wrong anymore.

…not on days like this
with everything so hot
like blood in the sun
and so much living and dying
while the grass just keeps on
growing
and the clouds
look like they’re trying
to rain

I’ll just keep telling the story
of the two copperheads
that my father killed
in the woodpile on a Sunday
while the pear trees
smelled like sex
and the bees buzzed on
like it was nothing
like it was nothing
like it was nothing
under those skies
on that finally quiet day
in June
when it just didn’t matter
all that much
anymore
what I chose to do.

“Carnelian,” I said,
pointing to her dress,
and she said, “Yes…
maybe.”The stones I used
to roll around
were just the same color
red
though some would call it poppy
and some might
just say orangeI thought about those stones
with the sound of the film
and the smell of the smoke
and the way
by the bench she said
that she felt him

I smelled her sweat
in the brand new rain
as we spoke about helium
and exits
the finality of the superstore
just not feeling the same
after those lights
lit the aisle
where he plotted his own death.

The shape of the neckline
was square,
the fabric was heavy
the strap of her bra
seemed quite white
and I wondered
what she would wear
tomorrow
as she sat in the back
alone to bear witness

would she be the woman
in a black dress
that leaves early
and says nothing
only cries quietly
and makes promises
that she will not forget
and that she will stay aliveTonight, she wore carnelian
and she will never
want to die again,
because he did.

This post was catalyzed by the events of the week and today’s Daily Prompt:
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/06/29/daily-prompt-mere-mortal/