A little over a year ago, some friends of ours moved to Okinawa, Japan. They were not the first of dear friends to move away and I'm sure they won't be the last. It just seemed like they went the farthest away.
All my life, I've said goodbye to dear friends after only knowing them for a short time. Anchorage is a city that many people only come to briefly, to leave their mark and then quietly escape.
It's frustrating and after a while, even the most understanding frame of mind gives way to a deluge of insecurity and an outcry of abandonment. I wanted to change that feeling that I was having when the Magids left. So I stretched apart the heartstrings and dug down to the familiar glistering speck of hope that they would return that is at the core of my sorrow. And this is the poem that emerged.
An Outbreak of Joy
-for the Magids-
Farewells are a function of love and goodbyes, dreams
of the past. My farewell has not been the poised, deliberate sever.
It is the perpetual lump in my throat, the sick dread that rips
the veil from the illusion, the whispered wordless chant.
Your goodbyes will haunt me: the last time
we share a laugh, a song, a handshake or hug: they will never
forget themselves. They will enrich my days and I will stitch
them into the fabric of my days until we meet again, whenever we meet again—at which point,
I will ask you to unravel it madly, in an outbreak of joy.
All my life, I've said goodbye to dear friends after only knowing them for a short time. Anchorage is a city that many people only come to briefly, to leave their mark and then quietly escape.
It's frustrating and after a while, even the most understanding frame of mind gives way to a deluge of insecurity and an outcry of abandonment. I wanted to change that feeling that I was having when the Magids left. So I stretched apart the heartstrings and dug down to the familiar glistering speck of hope that they would return that is at the core of my sorrow. And this is the poem that emerged.
An Outbreak of Joy
-for the Magids-
Farewells are a function of love and goodbyes, dreams
of the past. My farewell has not been the poised, deliberate sever.
It is the perpetual lump in my throat, the sick dread that rips
the veil from the illusion, the whispered wordless chant.
Your goodbyes will haunt me: the last time
we share a laugh, a song, a handshake or hug: they will never
forget themselves. They will enrich my days and I will stitch
them into the fabric of my days until we meet again, whenever we meet again—at which point,
I will ask you to unravel it madly, in an outbreak of joy.
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