Where You Were

My friend asked me where I was

the day her mother died. A Thursday. I was

somewhere, but I can't remember where,

what I wore, what the weather was.

The entire day is blank. A wall.

She tells me the hospital waiting room,

beige chairs, fluorescent gloom,

the moment her mother began to fall.

She wore a sweater her mother bought.

She knows the exact time.

She watched it happen, watched the climb

toward death. She watched. She caught

every detail. Every breath.

And I stood there with nothing at all.

No memory. No detail. Just the wall

between me and her, and death.

Now I think about all the days

I've let go, let fall away,

all the moments I've walked away from,

all the versions of me that have gone gray.