Anne

I don’t know you,

but I’ve read your diary.

I picked it up

at eleven years old–

four years younger

than you.

 

I don’t know you,

not really.

I know about you,

your likes and dislikes,

your family and friends,

the place you lived,

your words,

but a person is more.

You left this world

long before I came to it

with millions of others

killed by hate,

just like you.

 

I sat in an empty classroom

devouring the words you left.

Abruptly,

the words ran out.

I don’t know you,

but I’ve mourned you.

 

I’m older than you now

filled more diaries

than you ever will.

I’m still as confused

by your loss

as I was then.

The world should be better

should be kinder.

I don’t know you,

but I know this:

You should have lived.

The Order of Things

Patterns show up everywhere

Like electrons orbiting protons and neutrons

that form moons

orbiting planets

orbiting stars.

Like plants

producing

mathematically perfect spirals.

Like the rhythm of songs

the variations of sound waves

the walk of birds

(Utahraptors walked like chickens

my yard is full

of feathered dinosaurs).

Like my family

calling me by my brother’s name

even when he’s in a different state

and I’m in a skirt.

Like the structure of stories

told again and again

in different skins.

Like the rhythm of rainfall.

 

There’s a comfort to that.

Everything has a design,

a pattern,

though it may not be obvious

to human eyes.