restless twenty year old nights call to mind warm sixteen year old ones, running barefoot in the driveway, sitting silent on the porch, resting my head so carefully on the shoulder of a boy i thought i could predict. at sixteen, i thought the best thing about the world was that i did not have to participate in it – i thought to shut my mouth and close my ribs was a certain kind of honor. i am reaching, reaching, reaching back to that girl, wondering why she chose to throw all her joy away, wondering if she knows how much she must remember, how important it is to learn how to care again.
if i could say one thing to danielle circa 2012 i would tell her to buckle her seatbelt, i would tell her to remember the boy in the hospital bed. i would tell her that learning to open her chest again is entirely worth the night she will spend sobbing on the highway at 1 am. i would tell her to stop putting people in boxes, i would say to write more poems that aren’t about dying.
maybe someday twenty four year old danielle will write a poem to me, and maybe she will say there’s a big storm coming; maybe she’ll sing sonnets to the love and loss that will one day buckle my knees and send me running into doorframes. and maybe it’s okay that i don’t have a raincoat. maybe that’s just how it goes.