The Preciousness of Life
I’ve looked at my brother’s body.
Cold. Still.
Head wound stitched but left exposed,
like the truth they didn’t know how to hide.
His face caked in makeup.
Wearing his medals.
A soldier. A ghost.
A life lived, but never fully had.
I’ve watched the blood drain from my mother’s face —
yellowing, greying, gone.
A color no one should ever turn.
A color that still wakes me in the middle of the night.
I’ve kissed my dead father’s forehead.
Still warm.
Still mine.
Only hours after I told him I’d be okay.
I lied.
I’m not okay.
But I’m aware.
Brutally. Obsessively. Inescapably aware.
Of how precious all of this is.
How finite.
How cruel.
I walk into a bookstore and feel it —
every spine is a reminder.
I will never read most of these.
Can’t.
Won’t have the time.
I kiss my dog in the morning.
One less time.
I watch my wife sleep.
One less time.
Every joy is subtraction.
Every smile is slipping away.
Every moment is dying in your hands the second it starts.
And I carry that knowledge.
So the people I love don’t have to.
They get to be present.
They get to laugh without guilt.
They get to eat cake without hearing the clock tick.
I live in the past so they can live in the now.
And no, I’m not saying this to be a martyr.
I’m not asking for applause.
I’m not posting this to get comments about strength.
I’m a bucket.
That’s it.
A stupid, dented, heavy-ass bucket
bailing out the sinking canoe
so maybe — just maybe —
the people I love make it to shore.
And then, after all that…
Someone will still accuse me
of not being political enough.
Of not being woke enough.
Of not being angry the right way.
But you don’t see what I’m holding.
You don’t see what I’ve already buried.
What I’m trying to carry so you don’t drown in it.
You want a revolution?
Try showing up for the people who are barely keeping their heads above water.
You want someone louder?
Find a megaphone.
I’m a bucket.
If you need me —
you’ll find me knee-deep in the bilge,
doing the thing no one wants to do.
Because someone has to.
