Yesterday was not a good day.

I found out that my son’s classmate lost her mother two weeks ago. Her mother was only 2 years older than me. I’d met her a few times at soccer games, birthday parties, all the regular stuff. She was nice. Of course her passing set me off on some weird existential-crisis-type thing and so for the past 24 hours I have been asking myself the question, “What am I doing with my life?”

I think it might have been Donna who pointed out to me recently that I write poems about things that I fear: abduction, assault, the ocean, the universe, heights. I have been writing about death a lot lately–14 poems written so far in April, and a solid 10 of them address or refer to death in some way.

Does this mean I fear death? No, rather, I think I fear what I will miss in leaving the world. I think I fear not having told people enough that I love them. Not having seen enough. Having spent too much time observing or hiding rather than experiencing. I’m trying to fix that.

Rachel’s Day 12 Poem: Letter from the Mayor of Small Town in Eastern Pennsylvania To His Family
Someone Else’s Poem: Erin Lyndal Martin’s “Chinatown”

Today is slightly better.

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