Above Ground

by Clint Smith

The river that gives us water to drink is the same one that might wash us away.

little one you are my daily reminder that you do not go to a garden to watch the flowers grow you go to give thanks for what has already bloomed.

But there is no solace in rearranging language to make a different word tell the same lie.

I tremble at what I already know, that my children will not know this city beyond the holidays and funerals that bring them here.

And maybe things weren’t always perfect, but maybe this moment was, and maybe that’s enough of a memory to hold on to.

I think about how difficult it is for any of us to admit that we’re not who we used to be. That something in us has been lost over time and will probably never come back. It’s so hard to disappear without anyone noticing. It’s so hard to be honest about the changing contours of your past with- out the sky murmuring under its breath.

You can still mourn the damage done by a storm even if you stood on the shore and saw it coming.

I am trying to inhale all the smoke from this burning world while asking you to hold your breath.

Maybe treasure is anything that reminds you what a miracle it is to be alive.

He dreams of being an astronaut (and a teacher and chef and a superhero and a Pokémon) and I dream of his dreams and how possible I want them all to be.