James Scott Mitchell, 1978 - 1998

If I had died when I was 20, there would be

an In Memoriam bench for me, somewhere.

​

I sit and wonder about his trauma: no one dies

at 20 without. I think about him, about me too,

 

about the In Memoriam bench that never was,

because I lived. Have lived, am still. The thought

 

I almost died, once, one end-of-winter night,

a peculiar one, for I have no memories but surviving.

 

I was 3 or 4 when James died. I would not come

to his bench for almost two decades, on a perfect

 

autumn afternoon. I wonder gruesome things that

are not gruesome to me: death came close enough

 

to life on that March night, that sometimes

I cannot tell them apart. No one is fascinated

 

like I am with this survival of mine. I wonder

about his parents, lovers, teachers, friends,

 

all the people to whom his life mattered. I imagine he

had some terrible accident like me and wonder who

 

rode in the ambulance with him, held his hand.

Now I reconsider the color wheel, green as cool;

 

this afternoon, being alive is luscious and good

like a homegrown beet, hot skin and cold bones.