Here is a flickering tribute
to those who are
and have lost.
Here I hold a burning candle in one hand,
and your hand in my other.
The scent of the candle wafts
around the room,
yet no one notices the smell.
No, not in the midst
of all the crying and the tears.
We stand in lines to give our blood,
as if the red drops from our heart
will mend the wounds and bullet holes.
Even if we can’t heal the wounds right away,
we take a deep breath and try.
We give food, free food, but
there’s no such thing as a free lunch.
This lunch cost too much.
We pray for the families to heal,
but who can even think of healing in just one day?
Who can begin to fathom the agony?
Even if we can’t understand the depth of their pain,
we take a deep breath and try.
We tune in our radios and turn on our
televisions, for the first time in months,
just to get an understanding of how
and why
and what
happened.
But it won’t make sense. No, there’s no sense.
Even if we can’t make sense of the incomprehensible,
we take a deep breath and try.
We hear mothers’ cries for their lost sons,
brothers’ screams for their hurt siblings.
No, no, she’s not dead.
But she will never be the same.
So, here I hold a candle in one hand,
and your hand in my other.
It may not be enough,
there may never be enough,
but I pray that one day,
as all the triers come together,
we heal those who are and have lost.
As if that
Pieces of Pia 