The Stories
(December 31, 2004)

Carol Lem

As the ball dropped in Times Square

and an orchestra played Auld Lang Syne

Guy Lombardo style, we hugged to a better year

then toasted the dead:

a brother, dad, mom, friend, neighbor . . .

no not the tsunami victims but the ones

whose faces, hands, voices replay themselves

as much as those bodies floating out to sea,

the desperate clinging to trees,

the tourist having to let go of her older son

"to fend for himself," her husband sobbing,

"I just went back to the room for a diaper";

the woman combing the rubble of her home

for mementos of grandmother, mother,

sister, and child, "generations gone."

We talked about guilt after feasting on chicken

and wine. "It could happen anytime, to any of us,"

you said, as we sat by the fire overlooking

a glittering New Years Eve city.

I thought of the villager who sat with his wife

before taking the boat out for the first catch

of the day. She said, "The children will be waking

soon, don't go yet."

He complained about the high price of rice

and she about not having enough to buy

a microwave like the Patel's down the street.

He kissed his baby boy, tucking the blanket

under his chin, then caressed his twins

dozing in the tropical heat.

Their story ends there

and we go on to tell ours as the last refrain of

should old acquaintance be forgot

haunts back to another time before microwaves,

before having enough to satisfy small whims,

before there was a CNN to retell the stories

of those who don't even have a street.

So to all brothers, fathers and mothers,

acquaintances lost, let us not forget to tell our stories

while there is still time for the marking of a life.

- To Rick

1/04/05