there may be moments when you are rubbing your wrists
and they are in gold shackles, and we are singing
"O Captain, my Captain, sail home
we are waiting for you"
and you may not hear us, trapped
in an itty bitty living space, on Arabian nights
that fall too heavy on your eyelids.
but we can see you in there, Peter, even
when you cannot remember what fairies look like anymore
and hope seems childish, and you've been a grown-up
for long enough to know when it's time to close the window.
we may be singing, "O Captain, my Captain"
and standing on school desks, waiting
for you to come home and tell us
about poetry and beauty, and romance, and love
and how these are the things we stay alive for,
and you may not hear us.
but we are still singing it anyway, because
you taught us how.
and we just want to tell you
(just like you told us, once)
that it's not your fault.
it's not your fault.
it's not your fault.
we love you.
4 comments:
Thank you, Caitlin, for saying for me what I couldn't figure out how to say or at least how to say without being cloddish and inadequate. This is it.
Thank you. I weep with you.
I have read this aloud three times... Hoping I can get through it with more gratitude and less sorrow.... Fewer tears. I am unsuccessful. He was my favorite, and I didn't post anything because I didn't know how to make it...enough. I hope you don't mind me sharing this. It really does put into words exactly what I needed to say.
Thank you so much, everyone. Leela, I am so honored that you would want to share this with your friends.
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