Readers of NPR Morning Edition were asked to send in poems in the form of handwritten letters ("epistolary"), addressed to anyone they'd like. Their Poet-in-Residence Kwame Alexander turned (some of) the 600 submissions into a lovely crowdsourced poem titled "Love, Me."
Seeing you again today has got me thinking. We are at that stage in life where it's death — funerals, wakes, memorial services — that draws us together.
Should we wait for someone else to die to get together again? For some unknown reason the thought of you taking singing lessons in Bishkek crossed my mind this morning. I hope you are still singing, opening windows and laughing at our absurdities.
Every morning I open up to the back deck and look at the colorful array of life.
I dare you to wake up early before the sunrise, to step out of your home barefoot and naked. I dare you to walk through the grass and drift toward the trees and when you get there to raise your head high and plant your feet deep to look at the sky and marvel at its changing color.
Mortality is looming large. I'm almost 80. You will be soon, a few weeks before me. Will we party? Maybe? Does this worry you? Getting older?
Today, I noticed a tiny grasshopper leap into the unknown, and suddenly my escape turned into a race to be home. To tell you about it. To hold your tiny, chubby hand and show you this tiny leaping soul, and revel in your delight. Your wonder.
But, you are gone, and everything I see, touch, smell, hear takes me back to the you I still love, the you that still lives in all I see.