This month is the one year anniversary of posting my poem βCondolencesβ to TikTok and Instagram, where it amassed millions of likes and tens of thousands of comments.
Since, people have used the poem for adaptive art pieces, short plays, books, and class work. For your piece of art to be transformed into anotherβ¦itβs difficult to describe.
After several rejections from poetry publications a decade ago, I decided to post my work online instead. The responses were overwhelming. I realized that an official publication doesnβt make you a poet. Writing poetry does, and bonus points if you manage to resonate with just one other soul who needed to hear what you needed to say.
I was utterly taken aback by the response to this piece. People have asked me many times to explain it, but from the response it was clear that the meaning can be explicated with a little time.
Some people who didnβt understand it until it was explained were angry when it came together. It wasnβt written for them.
Iβm only grateful that it reached the people who needed it.
I feel that the imagery is part of the piece, but I know not everyone can or cares to listen to a video. Here is the poem:
They buried a girl in my hometown today.
βA young woman, gone too soon, in the prime of her life,β they all said.
My friends and I all knew her. We grew up together.
We were in all the same classes and hobbies and we made up games together at recess.
But none of us went to her funeral. We werenβt invited, because the people planning it didnβt think weβd understand. They said it wasnβt our loss.
So we got together for drinks. We laughed all morning and played card games all day.
At 4 oβclock, we heard the church bells. We saw that long, sad procession of cars stretch like a creek through town, up the cemetery hill.
We heard strange rumors that night, that the casket was empty. That they put it hollow in the ground.
So we went to the plot first thing in the morning. They buried her empty box next to her dad, down the row from an estranged aunt she never really knew all that well.
There wouldnβt be a stone for months, but the little placard had my name on it. But not the one I go by these days.
βHow strange,β we all said. βWhat a waste of good crying.β
All of this mourning for me, and I was down the street the whole time, laughing and drinking.
But some people will never understand. Theyβd rather plan a funeral than learn a new name.
My friend said she felt sorry for them, in some small way.
What a sad notionβto lose a daughter who never livedβ
And a son who never died.
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