Written for Ninon, who died fifty-seven years and one day after she was born

There is something wrong with long-distance death:
distant in space, distant in time
too far away to feel the grief,
and tears can't mark the grave from a thousand miles away.


When someone you loved dies, you should know
just know
The way you know your feet are on the floor and you're not
floating toward the ceiling.
It should be like gravity, only inside your soul.
Four years ago it happened to her,
but I only just felt it today.

She was there when my heart broke open to let in the sun.
She was there when I was drowning in blood.
She was there when everything changed, and changed again, and again.
She gave me a respite when I needed one.
She was the long, winding path in the shade, the one with the old stone wall on one side and ancient, drooping branches on the other. The one where I could stroll peacefully.
She laughed when I slept in the subway.
She tried, and I tried,
but somehow we missed each other
and collided at the same time.

Bruised, we staggered away and lost each other.

So how can she be dead for four years now
and me not know it?

When I was young, I thought the saddest thing was a date on a tombstone
showing a person had died just before her birthday.
But you missed the presents, I would think,
and, Couldn't you hold on for the cake and ice cream?

Ninon could. She did.