Not a day goes by when I don’t wonder: Where are you now?
I’m not always sure I want to know the answer.
Maybe I’ll be searching until the end. Unlike everything else this will never wrap itself up and pack itself away in a neat corner of history. It’s a surreal thought that death is a part of life. That even for someone who hasn’t stood nose to nose with it, every second of living is a second closer to death.
Make it worth it.
- how to tell when someone you love is going to be taken away,
how to love them better before it’s too late.
“I’m so sorry,” said my mother, as Mrs. Norton opened her front door. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were at home.”
Mrs. Norton was wearing a dressing gown. She smiled and winced at us in the morning sunlight.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you. You see, I thought you worked during the week.”
…
I will be in a little cafe in Paris, having cake.
Right now the Paris bit of that sentence is not central to my existence.
The cake part most definitely is.
(I miss good cake incredibly.)
I don’t remember
lighting this cigarette
and I don’t remember
if I’m here alone
or waiting for someone
- Leonard Cohen
Conductor’s note: Helen’s poem “Paris Metro, 2000” was published in the April 6, 2011 issue of TrainWrite.
You will call me and tell me about how the coal train has not gone through Nesquehoning in almost sixty years, you will remind me how you are only forty but know…
How does it feel
to leave?
Did it happen the way they said it would
Did you see me one last time
Did you hear me
Or were you long gone?
I look for you everywhere I go
Ten thousand kilometres away.
You left scratch marks on my arms two days before
And I thought they would stay forever
I almost asked
Do you remember?
It would be easy to say that you are in my heart
In the sunlight that slips through
Lately I think I inherited your love
Of flowers, children,
And fighting impossible battles.
Most of all, of wondering
No, of knowing
That you only get one try.
