To Know I Lived

The trees rustle their leaves and I think they are trying to sing me a song.  The skyscrapers stand tall and I think they are attempting to shield me from a vast loneliness that besets so many of us.  I stop to stare at my reflection in the puddle, in the rain.  I see nothing. 

The darkness and his accompanying wind are inviting.  In the alley beneath a fire escape, I wait.  Perched above me is a row of pigeons.  A brotherhood.  I crane my neck to observe the night.  Century-old buildings huddle together.  Brick, mortar, and three little pigs come to mind.  In the distance, not too far, I hear a sweet melody.  I imagine a saxophonist serenading the streets around him.  A woman and man stop to listen.  Smiling, the man extends his hand to the woman, and together they move slowly to the music that fills the space around them.  They dance as if no one is watching, as if they have forever.

I draw a deep breath and let it out.  I need warmth.   An orange light peers through a window a few balconies away.  Its presence forgoes my need to find shelter from the wetness that is the world tonight.

I am cold.  I look down at my well-trodden shoes.  I look up again and it is now an early hour of daylight so bright it blinds my morning eyes.  I glance around to determine where I am.  Freshly cut and watered grass.  A park.  Early birds run by me.

There are people sitting on benches nearby, talking to one another as if they have forever.  They look genuinely happy.  So happy it hurts.  I try to capture the fleeting moments in my memory jar before oblivion comes.  Alas, I am without a pen, I am without my paintbrush. 

I bend over to pick up a lone autumn leaf.  I return to my upright position and am no longer where I was.  I am in a quiet, seemingly forgotten place.  It is still cold.

A train is making its way to the station.  I hear its loud locomotive noises.  He is picking up new passengers, but not letting off any.  I look at where I am.  I am in a place that is very empty and barren.  And what is this sensation that I feel on my cheeks?  The stinging power of new tears, regretful tears.

I say, Wait, but to whom I am not certain.  I don't want to leave.  Allow me to stay if only for one more day.  I am yelling at the train conductor who has since magically appeared a few feet away from me.  He shakes his head no.  But you don't understand.  I haven't had my dance, yet.  His expression is quizzical.  The dance of love, and to the sounds of a spirited street musician, I exclaim.  He taps on his watch.  But you don't understand.  I cannot leave now.  There are so many paintings I have not yet started, not yet finished.  He looks at me with a sense of heartfelt empathy and compassion.  It is then that I know the train will not depart without me.

A puddle has gathered at my feet.  In it I finally see something: my life.

As the conductor helps me up the steps of the train, I whisper to him, To know I didn't live . . . is by far the heaviest baggage I take with me.  He remains silent, but manages to offer me a smile.

---

Take a risk.  Take many risks.
Fall in love.  Fall in love deeply.  Be not be afraid.  Dance together and believe in forever.
Live with purpose.  Paint if you are a painter.  Write if you are a writer.  Travel if you are a traveler.

Whatever it is you are, be it.  Be it so we can say at the end of all of this, To know we lived . . .