By the wet, leaping dance of lake waters,
we wrote our futures in the air.
Silence doesn’t show itself in a vacuum;
it must be fashioned and embraced.
We built and accepted this stillness,
siting before a peeled-paint, crimson porch,
a tree bowing over moss-hued lily pads,
dressed in bark brown and mint green
and a motionless fish torn open from within.
I wondered then if you knew, or cared,
as you sat there in a wheelchair and brace,
that I spent last night with your best friend;
as if the pain of injury, aborted aspirations
and a six month rehab stint felt like death
enough at age eighteen.