 Timo Newton-Syms CC A PARTIAL LIST OF THINGS I CAN AND CANNOT PROMISE To my next love,
On the Almost-Second Anniversary of the Last Time My Father and I Spoke The last time I spoke to my father was through text message on Christmas morning, 2018. He waited til the morning to drive home his point of bitter rage his history of hurt My father, my dad, wanted to hurt me as he had been hurt and I let him for 29 years. on Christmas morning two years ago for the first time, I said: no more. I told him to seek therapy as I have, and that this was the last time he would hear from me. I wished him peace. I sobbed, violent, shuddering sobs, at the second leaving of my father. Sorrow crept up my throat, a vise, a sickness, it threatened to escape. When my father left for the first time, I was taking a nap. I was 14. I never slept well again. Sorrow lives still in this one spot in the back of my throat: A threat and a promise How do we grieve those who are still alive? How do we grieve? How do we The lesson carved into my little feeling heart since I was a child is this: The people you love will leave you. and life is the reason for their departure more often than death. Now that I am older - an age I didn’t imagine myself to be - I see myself keeping people, I ask them to stay. I say, please don’t leave me. give them little gifts like a crow, pour from an empty cup, trying to be something like enough I say, I cannot weather another departure. knowing that I will weather many more if I am to continue being ages I never imagined I would be. Life has also taught me that the strength and anger and cruelty of my fear pushes people away. It is too much. It pushes and pours roiling ocean waves crashing and crashing and crashing to shore I am the sea in my despair In the thick darkness of 4am there are the faces of the people who are gone but elsewhere A oncedearfriend from school My first love An old friend I asked to officiate my wedding. He said yes. A few weeks later, he stopped speaking to me for reasons that I still do not know No warning or explanation just another face in the vast darkness I sent messages to him - to the void I guess - for years, telling him I missed him. Please call, please call, I miss you I still miss you so much I think of you always I am a gentler, sadder ocean I push, I push I search for meaning for my place in it I crash, I crash how do we grieve those who are still alive? my waves beat against a lonely shore nothing after nothing after nothing then there are those who are gone but not elsewhere. My mother’s mother, the silly charmer who sent pieces of gum in the mail when she wrote to me My mother’s father, who I never knew My father’s father, who I don’t remember apart from pennies from a cognac coin purse and silent vibrating rage Friends, teachers who deserve more than a line in a poem most recently there was Barbara. Barbara was my grandmother, my father’s mother. She taught me to love theatre She took me to Peter Pan at Olney Theatre down the road where I fell in love with the living darkness of storytellers bringing life to life I never got to say goodbye. She came to me in a dream shortly after she died. She seemed to understand - though not approve of - my choice to keep my father out of my life. She said, of my ability to gather a roomful of beloved friends, he always wished he could do that. At her funeral in the church down the road from that theatre, I saw my father from behind - though he did not see me - he was so alone his hair yellowing, his back curved with grief and something else I heard later that he missed me I couldn’t say goodbye to her there. I said goodbye later in the best way I could: sobbing in a darkened theatre, asking forgiveness from the rafters I love you and I’m sorry I love you and I wish it could have been different I love you and I tried but I am an ocean of not knowing what to do Life is coming and going. I’ve always wanted to be gone and, despite everything, here I am. an ocean and a bird Giving crowgifts, despite knowing that I cannot keep anyone Asking them to stay anyway Waves of love; crashing hopeful and sad how do we grieve those who are still alive? TO THE WOMAN IN THE FABRIC SECTION OF JOANN’S There was a woman in the fabric section of Joann’s In Wheaton mall, Who held me close I could feel her wanting to cry I had cracked a lame joke about wanting to buy too much yarn We got to talking (as craft people are wont to do She also could never resist anything soft and colorful) I happened to roll up the sleeves of my overlarge sweater Just because it was very warm Right there in the fabric section of Joann’s in Wheaton mall She saw my tattoo, a semicolon, a story I chose to continue to tell And she Knew. And I Knew because of the way she knew. It is so hard to talk about, To live through, She said And I knew, Because of the way she knew. She said I don’t talk about this to anyone, She said Not even my husband She said I can’t believe I’m telling this to you And we hugged In the middle of the fabric section of Joann’s Fabric In Wheaton mall Twice There was a woman on the streets of Philadelphia Who had had a long day Betrayed by the break in her voice and the creases in her suit I had been walking in front of her, on my way to who knows where and pushed through an unfriendly group of people Crowding the sidewalk (Remember when people crowded the sidewalk?) Who just wouldn’t move And I don’t remember what she said Or why we started to talk We laughed about people and the way they never move when you need them to, Even though it would be so easy But I know she had a long day, and sometimes when people crowd in front of you on the sidewalk and Won’tgetoutoftheway It’s too much I told her I hoped that she would be able to rest tonight, she was going to skip a happy hour with friends, And I laughed and said girl you deserve a drink, though! You deserve to do something fun And she stopped, And I stopped And I knew because of the way she knew. And she asked me if she could hug me And we hugged In the middle of a sidewalk in Philadelphia I hope she got to rest. I hope she got to drink with her friends. I think about her all the time. There was a teenager on the metro passing through Somewhere or other And I had had my own long day, Hot and sweaty with bare arms crossed We sat across from each other, in our own tired metroworlds, And they pointed at my tattoo – the same one; the semicolon – And said, “you too?” And I said yeah, Me too. There are all the times I’ve felt the zing of connection to a stranger From one tired or hungry or sad person to another, These connections with people I will never see again are holy They are god They are why I check the news for news of vaccinations I check my calendar to see what I’m going to miss I think of all the times someone has looked at me, Hopeful and uncertain “You know, I’ve never told this to anyone before.” Of the times I’ve said the same thing back I think of all these people I’ve hugged in the middle of the fabric section of Joann’s, Or in the streets of Philadelphia Or just two words on the subway that share more of my story than I could ever Say I hope they’re okay. I hope you’re okay  Natalie (she/they) is a poet, playwright, and maker. She has worked as a writer in theatres across the United States and with the zine Indoorsy. If you're looking for hopeful queer stories with a touch of melancholy, you're in the right place.
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