Yesterday I learned that a friend’s young daughter
died from an overdose of heroin, the second friend
who’s lost a daughter to heroin in two years. I cannot
imagine looking to the sky, unable to see blue. I don’t want to
imagine the what ifs, the if onlys, the unimaginable
pit and pity. But every mother with a child
who struggles can’t help but imagine
waking to that call in the blackest hour of night,
that knock on the door in the first morning light
after they’ve found her, cold
after they’ve found you, warm
in your bed, sleeping lightly, as you do,
as you did when she was new to the world,
when you didn’t want to miss her cry. They will
find you, and with soft voice break
the news. I saw a mourning dove perched
on a thin branch on the red maple out front
coo-ing under the bluest of skies. The weight
of beauty, the loneliest beauty,
feels too heavy for my weary wings. Leonard Cohen
can keep his bells, his cracks, his light. Where is God
in the dark? Outside World of Beers
I sat with my husband, nursing IPAs
in the evening summer sun when two young women
approached and asked if they could pray for us.
Of course I said, pray away. And they did,
and for a moment I felt saved. I never met God
on the F train, don’t think he was that stranger I sat next to
on the bus, but if He wants to answer prayers
prayed by young women outside a bar
so be it. There but for the grace of God go I,
the loneliest line of poetry.
died from an overdose of heroin, the second friend
who’s lost a daughter to heroin in two years. I cannot
imagine looking to the sky, unable to see blue. I don’t want to
imagine the what ifs, the if onlys, the unimaginable
pit and pity. But every mother with a child
who struggles can’t help but imagine
waking to that call in the blackest hour of night,
that knock on the door in the first morning light
after they’ve found her, cold
after they’ve found you, warm
in your bed, sleeping lightly, as you do,
as you did when she was new to the world,
when you didn’t want to miss her cry. They will
find you, and with soft voice break
the news. I saw a mourning dove perched
on a thin branch on the red maple out front
coo-ing under the bluest of skies. The weight
of beauty, the loneliest beauty,
feels too heavy for my weary wings. Leonard Cohen
can keep his bells, his cracks, his light. Where is God
in the dark? Outside World of Beers
I sat with my husband, nursing IPAs
in the evening summer sun when two young women
approached and asked if they could pray for us.
Of course I said, pray away. And they did,
and for a moment I felt saved. I never met God
on the F train, don’t think he was that stranger I sat next to
on the bus, but if He wants to answer prayers
prayed by young women outside a bar
so be it. There but for the grace of God go I,
the loneliest line of poetry.
by Diane Gottlieb
Diane Gottlieb is the editor of Awakenings: Stories of Body & Consciousness, the forthcoming Manna Songs: Stories of Jewish Culture & Heritage and the Prose/Creative Nonfiction Editor of Emerge Literary Journal. Her writing appears in Brevity, Witness, Florida Review, River Teeth, The Rumpus, Huffington Post, among many other lovely places.
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