about empathy

In my effort to write more, I've been thinking about little projects/collections I can work on.  The most recent one has to do with experiences that have happened to other people, mostly stories of trials and pain that I've seen my friends and family walk through with strength.

It's crazy to think about what an impact other people's stories can have on us.  I wouldn't characterize myself as someone who has been through a lot of tragic, trying experiences, but I have known a lot of people who have, and their strength has often inspired me. What's interesting is being the person who watches another person's pain -- I'm interested in the way we deal with that, and what we learn from it, and how we enter into it and let it change us.

This first poem in the series is about my twin brother, Taylor.  When we were young, early elementary school, we played on the same t-ball team.  One day at practice Tay got hit in the head with a metal bat.  Strangely, it is one of my most vivid memories from childhood and the first time I ever remember crying for another person.  (And don't worry! He had an indented forehead for a few months but other than that was totally fine!)

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Cracked

It was the sound that split

me in two: one, the girl I was

Before and then the other,

the girl who stumbled upon

loneliness that comes

with the idea of horrible things

happening.  He was standing

on the wrong side of home base,

a lefty up at bat and no one thought

to change; no one can look right

through a person and see

the pain they might cause.

I heard it but didn't see the bat

strike the side of his forehead.

I heard the sound like I could

hear the whole earth if it cracked.

In slow motion it felt like people

ran to him as he crumbled –

my twin. Never had I felt so much

like I was really alone,

for the first time weeping for someone

who wasn't myself. 

Even after they acknowledged me, even

in the jeep after the doctor and he’s fine,

he’s fine I was shaking and delicate

like lace.  I felt the small patterns

of my life disconnected, like sound was not

enough to know, or sight.

We’d make jokes in school and laugh 

about the black eye; hands would touch

the dented space.  In those moments he was living

something I still do not know.