The Quake

The most terrifying part 

of the most terrifying part 

was 

not knowing. 

Nothing beyond

the most terrifying part, but 

an imaginary wall.

Could have been 

concrete.

Could have been

brick.

Angrier than

concrete.

Angrier than

brick.

It was charged with

revolt,

out for 

revenge,

surged with

disbelief.

The wall that came 

after the most terrifying part,

which was your death,  

was a tsunami.

The most terrifying part 

of the most terrifying part 

was the thought

we might survive 

the tsunami,

after losing you.

The most terrifying part

of the most terrifying part

was the anticipation.

Vast lack

of preparation.

For death and moments

that follow, one

cannot prepare.

We would not survive

the quake

that was your death.

This, I felt.

No life jackets.

No higher ground.

Useless props,

on the 

stage of death.

Still, we braced 

for impact.

A form of

emotional anticipation.

Reflexive reaction

in an uncontrollable

situation.

The most terrifying part

of the most terrifying part

was the impending doom

in the final days.

The awareness, 

of what would inevitably

transform

our reality.

One evacuation route.

Only three of us

could survive.

You, our precious fourth,

we’d be forced to leave 

behind. To hand

you to 

a different kind

of caretaker.

The most terrifying part 

of the most terrifying part

was saying

our goodbyes.

Knowing we’d never see, feel, hold,

smell you, again.

A forever goodbye.

How does one brace

for that kind

of impact?

You existed.

We were one.

Then, the most terrifying part arrived.

Death separated our souls,

leaving your altered body

intact.

An empty vessel

I couldn’t let go.

I clung to you,

tossed by the wave,

which broke my strength.

I held on, but the time came,

to release you.

A forfeit of happiness

exchanged for

eternal sorrow.

The most terrifying part

of the most terrifying part 

is the three of us 

did survive.

Nearly two years later,

I am scarred, taking inventory

of what is left.

What does any of it mean,

if we no longer have you?

The most terrifying part

of the most terrifying part

is that

the quake

cracked me open.

It showed me things,

I can never unsee.

Tumble after tumble,

the breathless dive 

that became 

the aftermath of your life, 

left me lucid,

separated,

but still alive.

As I lay

pinned to the ground,

I don’t notice,

the water lulled

back to the sea.

I barely notice,

the boulder

which crushed my chest

being lifted.

My chest cavity

splayed open, but

it is not my organs

on display.

From the crevice that once

was your home,

my womb,

peculiar and colorful flowers

begin to grow.

I don’t notice

your soul as it

sprinkles

seeds of growth

onto mine,

but I know they came

from you

because in them,

I see, I feel,

I smell, you again,

for the first time.

The most terrifying part of

you dying

is accepting

my new life,

and new growth

in the wake of

your death. A perspective

shift. In

allowing life’s divinity

which I could not see before,

to be seen.

Beauty, lost

in the quake

slowly returns.

Like water,

to the ocean.

Like strength,

to me.

I am learning not

to look away, not to fear

the beauty of

new life,

new growth,

new perspective,

because the more deeply

I stare into it

the clearer it becomes:

I am staring at

the reflection

of you.