Junot Diaz, in one of his works, describes a father as a hard thing to compass
and so is death.
are we walking towards death
is death coming at us
are we dying a little every day
i sit in the woods
the white chair out of place in the woods
yet in place. At home.
you sat here ages ago
i don’t know you, didn’t know you
now i think of you
the dreams you must have dreamt here
the laughter, the tears, the silences
what books communed with you here
a reader knows a reader
Banana Yoshimoto sits by me
Mayu has died.
The young die unfinished
Mayu was young and finished
How we labour for things and people
yet when we think we have gained purchase
death sneaks in. Takes us.
If we are lucky we are old and formed
just like you.
If we are not, and we will be unlucky, we are young and unfinished
just like Mayu.
we have done all this to die
we have done nothing of this to die
were you happy?
your white chair tells me you are.