Letter to God
Dear God,
I had a good day today.
And I hope You did too.
That You witnessed more acts of kindness,
more remnants of humanity
than of vileness.
I had the pleasure of conversation
with someone I care about deeply.
I spoke to her of grief — of people, and of things —
and she wept.
But then we laughed,
and befriended a drunk man drinking wine.
The beauty of Vancouver embraced me —
the pine trees, as comrades,
cast their shade upon me.
It was warm, but not too much.
I practiced, once again, the craft of poetry.
Thank You, God, for granting me
this ancient gift that sometimes returns,
like the sun after the rain,
revealing itself in the seven colors of the rainbow.
I loved my parents.
I thought a lot about my brother.
I recalled the ethereal dream of paradise,
where Your face and his seemed to become one.
I reflected on the deadly sins,
interpreted them —
and in either penance or guilt, I avoided them.
And more than that, I gave myself the right,
yes, the right,
to buy a more expensive loaf of bread.
I spoke with a kind old man.
We talked about who we are,
where we come from,
and where we’re going.
And I, once so ashamed of my speech,
spoke with the ease of one
who masters many languages.
We told each other
that moments like those warm the heart.
God, I thought a lot about Sara.
At first,
came anguish.
Then came serenity.
Then came beauty, gratitude, lightness —
for having loved and been loved
by someone so beautiful
in all her most metaphysical layers.
I felt longing.
And I asked myself:
am I supposed to feel it?
God, is it right to miss her this much?
On my happiest day, should I still want her?
And on my saddest too?
I made her a promise in thought:
that I would write a poem each day
if she came to talk to me —
but not to mention me,
only to speak of herself.
I acknowledged my human nature
and promised that if I failed that vow,
I’d fulfill it the next day.
Then I took it back.
Told myself she doesn’t need to come back to love me —
only to come.
To tell me about her day,
about the many days I no longer share.
All I want is to know
everything that passes through that beautiful mind —
stubborn, yes, sometimes — but who isn’t?
If I am too, then others may be as well.
I revisited many of my mistakes,
but also gave myself the right
to revisit one — just one — success.
As if I, too, were entitled
to be human.
God, may she have shared with me
the beauty of the sky licking the mountain’s back
in orange tones —
and may You have renewed
my hope
in You and in Your humanity.
And in the end I asked myself:
if You took my life right now,
would I die happy?
The truth is, God,
I don’t know.
But I have tomorrow
to try again.