My husband is convinced we escaped
death by a hair that Sunday afternoon
driving home in a thunderstorm with
the scent of the sea still on our skin
I can’t imagine how it could have
ended there, all concrete and metal
caught in the downpour. I understand
how things can go horribly wrong—
How that moment could not have
been that moment if we’d lived our
lives even the slightest bit different.
I understand the infinitesimal deaths
We can die every day. Maybe if we no
longer had faith in a love that survives
seasons, or maybe if each tenderness
dried out like the ground after the rain
In the wake of our shortcomings. It’s
not that I believe we are invincible.
Not that I don’t picture a hospital bed
somewhere, a sudden thud on a sunny
Morning, frail fingers trying to hold
on to each other, a quiet place. But
what else can I tell you, except with all
that we’ve been given, to take nothing
for granted.
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Small ways to die
i love this :') thank u for your words.