The Quake

The most terrifying part
of the most terrifying part
was not knowing.

Nothing beyond
the most terrifying part, but
an imaginary wall.

Could have been
concrete.
Could have been
brick.

Angrier than
concrete.

More malleable than
brick.

It was charged with
revolt,
out for revenge,
surged in disbelief.

The most terrifying part
of the most terrifying part
was the thought
we might survive the tsunami,
after losing you.

The most terrifying part
of the most terrifying part
was the anticipation.
Vast lack of preparation.

For death and moments
that follow, one
cannot prepare.
We would not survive
the quake
that was your death.

No life jackets.
No higher ground.
Useless props on the
stage of death.

We braced
for impact.
A form of emotional anticipation.
Reflexive reaction
in an uncontrollable
situation.

The most terrifying part
of the most terrifying part
was the impending doom
in the final days.

The awareness,
of what would inevitably
transform
our reality.

One evacuation route.
Only three of us
could survive.
You, our precious fourth,
we’d be forced to leave
behind. To hand you to
a different kind
of caretaker.

The most terrifying part
of the most terrifying part
was saying our goodbyes.
Knowing we’d never see, feel, hold —
smell you, again.

A forever goodbye.
How does one brace
for that kind of impact?

You existed.
We were one.
Then, the most terrifying part arrived.

Death separated our souls,
leaving your altered body intact.
Becoming an empty vessel
I couldn’t let go.

I clung to you,
tossed by the wave,
which broke my strength.

I held on, but the time came,
to release you.
A forfeit of happiness
in exchange for
eternal sorrow.

The worst part
of the most terrifying part
is that the three of us
survived.

Nearly two years later,
I am scarred, taking inventory
of what is left.
What does any of it mean,
if we no longer have you?

The most terrifying part
of the most terrifying part
is that
the quake
cracked me open.

It showed me things,
I can never unsee.
Tumble after tumble,
the breathless dive
that became the aftermath of your life,
left me lucid, separated,
yet, still alive.

As I lay
pinned to the ground,
I don’t notice,
the water lulled
back to the sea.

I barely notice,
the boulder,
which had crushed my chest,
being lifted.

My chest cavity
splayed open, but
it is not my organs
on display.

From the crevice that once
was your home,
my womb,
peculiar and colorful flowers
begin to grow.

I don’t notice
your soul as it
sprinkles seeds of growth
onto mine,
but I know they came from you.

It is in them,
I see, I feel,
I smell, you again.

The most terrifying part of
you dying is accepting
my new life, and new growth
in the wake of
yours.

A perspective shift.
It is in allowing
life’s divinity
which I could not see before,
to be fully seen.

Beauty, lost
in the quake
slowly returns.

Like water,
to the ocean.
Like strength,
to me.

I am learning not
to look away, not to fear
the beauty of new life,
which brings
an evolved perspective.

The more deeply
I stare into it,
the clearer it becomes that
I am staring at
the reflection of you.