Mile 40

On I-71, on a route I have driven literally hundreds of times, there is a simple green-and-white sign marking the site of a tragic 1988 bus crash. Today’s draft started with the prompt “Leading her into the distance,” and meandered into a consideration of that whole event and the marker that barely registers for some, and holds a bottomless grief for others.

A short statement of fact, like the surface of a lake on a calm day:

“Site of Fatal Bus Crash May 14, 1988”

It seems entire, but really,

just a breath, just a fingertip below the calm lake surface,

awakens grief, horror, an endless depth of stories of the might-have-been.

Daily, maybe, needles to the heart of the left-behind

who drive this country interstate, still.

A caught breath, faded pictures,

another walk down a dark-minded path — or —

grief opens the heart like an Advent Calendar,

gift after gift after unwanted gift.

Each must be held to see the shine of the offering.

A daily heart opening, which sounds sweet and warm,

but really, we are talking about reshaping a human organ.

That never happens without pain.