… this is what we do.
We gather each other up.
We say, the cup is half yours and half mine.
We say alone is the last place you will ever be.
~ Andrea Gibson
Sometimes the ones who save us
are not our besties.
Not our buddies at work
or the chums we’ve known since childhood.
When the crash comes
or the other shoe drops,
we expect our closest friends
to stop everything and rush to our side.
But coming to the hospital
in the wee hours of the morning,
dropping off a meal or sending a text
isn’t the proof it first appears.
Meaningful in the moment,
these initial acts
can be the kindness born of impulse,
but no litmus test of true fidelity.
Lifelong links are born of tougher stuff,
forged in fire, withstanding time and distance;
tragedy and trauma only reveal
how strong the bonds truly are.
Our “angels of the get through”
as poet Andrea Gibson says.
The ones who run toward the flame
and can tell when “I’m fine” is just a lie.
They stick and stay,
don’t wait for us to ask.
And when the world goes dark,
they do not leave our side.
Visiting hours do not contain them,
they show up any way.
Our towering grief doesn’t scare them,
they only lean in harder to hold it.
Here’s to the ones who catch us when we fall.
Who say ‘me, too’ when they hear our shame-filled secrets.
The ones who go the whole way
instead of trying to find their way out of the car.
