Marie Howe - "What the Living Do"

[dyingishate.livejournal.com]

[This was written to her brother, he killed himself.]

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil
          probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty
          dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday
          we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight
          pours through

the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in
          here, and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the
          street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday,
          hurrying along those
wobby bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down
          my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This
          is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called
          that yearning.

what you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the
          winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and
          more and then more of it.

but there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself
          in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a
          cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that
          I'm speechless:
I am living, I remember you.