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Description
It's like a little girl
cupping a feather in her hand on a windy day
She holds it between two fingers, telling herself
that she's going to let it fly away like the creature it came from
fly away and dance in the wind.
But fingers don't seem to want to let go- they preen over the little grey and yellow patches instead
and avoid the bits that are matted with red.
The little girls knows
sort of
what that red is, but she won't let herself think about it.
It's like when that little girl
takes home the feather held carefully in her pocket
and places it
(carefully, gently)
in an old
dusty box
under her bed,
where it sleeps until a few years later
when she finds her forgotten treasure,
climbs to the tippity top
of her favorite climbing tree
and finally lets the feather fly away.
It makes her cry
how it gets stuck on every branch on the way down.

It's like a 10 year old boy
fingers rigid around a tree branch
while his feet hang down in the air.
His friends aren't even there to egg him on,
he just wanted to see
how high he could jump from.
It's like when his brain keeps saying
"1...2...3, let go!"
But his fingers don't listen,
and finally, just when he's about to call for mom,
the signal gets through and
the branch slides between white-knuckled fingers and
his feet slap the ground.
It's like tingling in your feet
and falling over with a jolt in the mud
and saying
"Hey, that wasn't so bad."

It's like a teenager,
who passes a graveyard on a run
and whose feet force themselves to turn,
to slow down and walk up to one big grey stone.
It's like a careful hand
and shaky whispered words
from a girl who never learned to speak to the dead
and probably never will,
so instead she sings a lullaby
and lays the first budding branch of spring beside a pile of flowers and a rock that reads,
"We miss you."

It's like identical tears
on similar faces
as a car pulls away from the first day of a new life.
And a note tucked away in a suitcase that says
"have fun at collage."
Like silent, shaking tears
that build behind your eyes
and don't come out till night, in the darkness of two separate and lonely bedrooms.

It's old friends who drift apart
and never even think of each other until
suddenly someone says something not remotely funny,
and you laugh,
and you realize it's an inside joke
between friends who are a thousand miles apart.
It's like when you pick up the phone and call them,
and realize,
you don't know what to say.

It's the last word of a story,
the last note of a song,
the last spark of a fire,
the last echo of a laugh.
It's something all humans hate to do,
try so hard not to do
and yet everyone one of us
does it a thousand times
in a lifetime.

Description
It's like a little girl
cupping a feather in her hand on a windy day
She holds it between two fingers, telling herself
that she's going to let it fly away like the creature it came from
fly away and dance in the wind.
But fingers don't seem to want to let go- they preen over the little grey and yellow patches instead
and avoid the bits that are matted with red.
The little girls knows
sort of
what that red is, but she won't let herself think about it.
It's like when that little girl
takes home the feather held carefully in her pocket
and places it
(carefully, gently)
in an old
dusty box
under her bed,
where it sleeps until a few years later
when she finds her forgotten treasure,
climbs to the tippity top
of her favorite climbing tree
and finally lets the feather fly away.
It makes her cry
how it gets stuck on every branch on the way down.

It's like a 10 year old boy
fingers rigid around a tree branch
while his feet hang down in the air.
His friends aren't even there to egg him on,
he just wanted to see
how high he could jump from.
It's like when his brain keeps saying
"1...2...3, let go!"
But his fingers don't listen,
and finally, just when he's about to call for mom,
the signal gets through and
the branch slides between white-knuckled fingers and
his feet slap the ground.
It's like tingling in your feet
and falling over with a jolt in the mud
and saying
"Hey, that wasn't so bad."

It's like a teenager,
who passes a graveyard on a run
and whose feet force themselves to turn,
to slow down and walk up to one big grey stone.
It's like a careful hand
and shaky whispered words
from a girl who never learned to speak to the dead
and probably never will,
so instead she sings a lullaby
and lays the first budding branch of spring beside a pile of flowers and a rock that reads,
"We miss you."

It's like identical tears
on similar faces
as a car pulls away from the first day of a new life.
And a note tucked away in a suitcase that says
"have fun at collage."
Like silent, shaking tears
that build behind your eyes
and don't come out till night, in the darkness of two separate and lonely bedrooms.

It's old friends who drift apart
and never even think of each other until
suddenly someone says something not remotely funny,
and you laugh,
and you realize it's an inside joke
between friends who are a thousand miles apart.
It's like when you pick up the phone and call them,
and realize,
you don't know what to say.

It's the last word of a story,
the last note of a song,
the last spark of a fire,
the last echo of a laugh.
It's something all humans hate to do,
try so hard not to do
and yet everyone one of us
does it a thousand times
in a lifetime.