Guest writer Tahimi’s poem, “the rate of death is directly proportional to the rate of life,” in The Elixir.
I am 22 years old and
hopefully, wistfully,
60 years from death.
I used to dream about
traveling the globe,
stabbing a flag into the tips
of the Himalayan mountains,
or snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef,
a school of sharks by my side.
And then she died.
And so have approximately,
55.3 million people each year,
151,600 people each day,
6,316 people each hour,
105 people each minute,
about two people per second.
Maybe they died
when they were 89 years old
right at the cusp of a nice long life.
But maybe they died
when they were only 13 years old
or 22
or five.
When I look up at the stars at night,
when I try to grab them between
my shaking fingers
I wonder if they ever got to do what they loved:
if those 55.3 million people ever lived
like they had little galaxies
of love orbiting inside of them.
The kind of love that sits in your bones,
that you feel down to your pinky toe,
that makes you stay up for hours
wondering if the distance
between each galaxy
could measure up
to how much you love his smile,
or the kind of love that makes you
lay down in the rain
in the middle of the road
on a Tuesday in September.
And at 22 I realize
I am so young,
we are so young.
And we settle for a job
or a career
applied between one inch margins
at a twelve point font
in Times New Roman.
We are too young
and the world is so beautiful
and there are dandelions
on the side of the road
that wave at you
to blow your wishes on them.
And I wonder
if at 23 I will realize that in life
the rate of death
is directly proportional
to the rate of life.
That when there’s a supernova in space
there is also a first kiss,
a first glance,
a first word.
I wonder if the secret to life
is found at a supermarket
in the middle of the night
in the cereal aisle.
Or maybe at 23 I’ll
hopefully, wistfully,
realize that our todays
will always be our tomorrows
and our tomorrows are uncertain
but the kiss from my lover
and the hug from my father
and the touch from my mother
will outlive the Himalayas
and the Great Barrier Reef.
Or perhaps I’ll be 22
wrapped in a robe
at 11:17 p.m.
on a Tuesday night
in November.
via the rate of death is directly proportional to the rate of life
