ANNIVERSARY

The date itself, though inauspicious,
Hadn’t stuck me as suspicious.
The note invited all to come
That date to the inviter’s home,
Where we’d all “propitiate,
And, mood allowing, celebrate.”

It had the sound of pagan rite.
I waffled, went; I thought it might
Be good to mix with different crowd.
I’d met her but had not allowed
Firm sense to form of whether she
Was one to inch toward or flee.
Her invitation had suggested
She was somehow interested,
And I, though wary, felt that she
Might see things I wished to see.

The soft, late sun infused the space
Of her plain, tidy Brooklyn place.
The guests were few, just eight or ten;
No more appeared once I was in.
She, the only one I’d met
Met my eyes with…what, regret?

The mood was pleasant, but subdued.
Most sipped their drinks, ignored the food.
Large and silent screen screamed view
I’d seen a thousand times: the two
Still stood but the one that held
Her and us would soon rescale
Not just its own size and shape
But all the world’s and life’s landscape.

I must have blanched, or maybe flushed.
I stumbled, caught myself, and rushed
Toward the door. But she caught me—
I made to strike her; suddenly
My arm, and anger, soul went slack;
Her eyes gleamed as mine went black.

They still gleamed when mine revived.
My anger flared. She stuttered, “I’ve…
Made a grave…I was mistaken…”
She paused, said, “Who am I to reawaken…”
She stopped. The room just held us two,
The guests all gone, no screen in view.
I said, “This aim of yours to celebrate
And…what was it? Propitiate?
What could make you think that I
Could celebrate that she—they—died?”

I rose to go. She stammered, “Wait.
You haven’t got the order straight.
For what it’s worth, ‘propitiate’
Was put in front of ‘celebrate.’”
I turned the knob. She said, “Me too.”
I paused…she said, “My husband…you
And I both lost them on that day…
He went to help, but anyway…”
She trailed off, I turned around.
I said, “But then on what strange ground
Could you and others gather here
To celebrate what must still sear
Your every day, your every night…
My God, I’m sorry, it’s not right!”

I turned my back. She said, “I thought
That maybe you, like me, have fought
The horror of the realization
That day was fair propitiation.”
“That word again,“ I said, “Atone.
Of course it’s not just you alone
Who senses something justified
In what they did, but both ours died.”

She stood, she faintly smiled, and said,
“I’m sorry. There’re so many dead.”
She walked away, as if defeated.
“What was his name?” I sort of bleated.
“Ted. And hers?” “Her name was Beth.”
She laughed, “They rhyme with dead and death.”

Despite myself, I laughed, hands fumbled.
“You remind me I’m alive,” I mumbled.
Since that odd night in that September
I try to make myself remember
That the date on which a whole life fell
Is date on which life rose as well.

Written January 26, 2023
© Lawrence Helms