Good, Poet
Today’s post was inspired by the recent killing of Renee Nicole Good by ICE.
Dearly Departed,
…
Stranger,
…
Neighbor,
…
Mother,
…
Friend,
…
Poet,
…
Dear Renee Good,
You deserved better. In life. In death. And after. But especially on the day you died. Because you were alive. And I don’t need to know your favorite coffee order, or what time of day you typically liked to write, to know that. I also don’t need to know what your favorite sweater looked like, and the number of its loose strings. Or how long you’d owned your favorite pair of socks, and what color they were. Or how long you kept your first car, where you drove it first, and who was most often in its passenger seat. Or where you were when you found out you won an award for your poetry, and with whom you celebrated and how. Or where you were when you wrote that award-winning poetry, and how its first draft made your head, heart, and gut feel. Or what inspired your poems, your day-to-day life, and all the dreams you’d have at night. Or what those dreams were made of, and whom, and how you were planning to make them a reality one day, when you believed you’d get the chance. Or what the oldest item in your fridge was, what meal you included it in last, and where you ate it. Or who you wanted to eat most of your meals with when you couldn’t. Or what you did to bring in the new year, and if it made you smile or sigh or cry. Or what time of day your favorite picture of yourself was taken, who took it, and if you loved them for how they saw you and captured your most cherished moments. Or how far you were willing to travel to go to a concert, and what type of music inspired you to move or encouraged you to sit still. Or if you’d listen to music when you were happy or sad or nostalgic or busy. Or the list of every kind act and sin you committed side-by-side, especially the ones you couldn’t let go of or admit aloud. Or what your face looked like when you’d laugh or rage. Or what made you laugh and rage the most. Or what your eyes looked like when you felt terror and were truly afraid. Like you were during the last seconds of your life, which passed in a blink, and should have been full of warmth and wrinkles and wise lived-out years with loved ones, not … what you got.
Still, based on what I know, here’s what I would write on your tombstone:
Renee Nicole Good, Poet
Liver of life
Tragically, gone too soon
© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC.
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