you share that your lost everything when your mom died.
the DC home that was in your family for generations.
the cousin who said you could sleep on her living room floor
until her daily use of heroin made you miss feeling numb.
you started sleeping in your car so numb was normal
for just a bit longer. by yourself.
you look at me from the shelter you are stuck in.
it’s too cold to sleep in your car.
you smile with tears in your eyes
that you wish you were more like me.
that you wish you handled your mother’s death more like me.
i want to tell you. i know i can’t.
so i smile.
i order 4 bottles of wine that’s delivered to my warm condo
with my beautiful husband tipping on the delivery.
i want to tell you that i am so broken.
i cry. i drink a bottle of wine. i sometimes sleep.
that i am broken into bits spread the 160 miles from
where my mom died and where i live now.
the difference between your mourning and mine
is that i am white. privileged.
you are african-american. fighting to survive.
i will never know what you lost.
you lost the most important person
as i did.
but you lost everything else, too.