Words

I loved my friend.

He went away from me

There’s nothing more to say

The poem ends,

Soft as it began--

I loved my friend.

                       by Langston Hughes

This week, I lost my friend. In the darkness of grief, when reality has become unreal, when tears don’t heal and the future seems like a long road of emptiness, where do I go? What do I do? I turn to words. And sometimes they fail me. “There’s nothing more to say.” There is more grief expressed in those words written by poet Langston Hughes than in anything I’ve ever read.

Words heal us. As writers, the words that flow can surprise us. W.H. Auden said, “I look at what I write so that I may see what I think.” It’s a primal kind of therapy for some of us, a way to pull from the jumbled brain something that has shape, or order, or meaning.

As readers, words connect us. Whether they make us smile—hey, I’m not the only one who thinks that’s funny!—or bring us to tears, it’s all about the human connection.

Writers for children must honor this need for connection in their work. Books like Each Little Bird that Sings by Deborah Wiles for middle graders, and The Last Summer of the Death Warriors by Francisco X. Stork for young adults deal with life and death, and living in the midst of death, in ways that acknowledge and honor all of our mixed emotions about moving forward in a world that can be filled with heartache. The fact that sometimes we don’t really want to face up to our fears and losses, while somewhere deep inside we are aching to come to terms with them—these are themes and threads that run throughout our lives, and that run through all good literature. Each Little Bird and Death Warriors both fit the bill here beautifully.

So where do I turn when my own words fail me? When I can’t write my way out of my own hurt? To the words of others. To books, of course. Young adult, preferably—tightly written, emotionally true. And for one other reason which I’ll get to in a minute.

Next to me is a copy of The Fault in our Stars by John Green. A novel of life and death and the people caught in between, says Markus Zusak’s review on the back cover. Because I need that connection right now—to feel a little less alone in my head with all these difficult feelings. Because I know that it will help me think about my own loss and view it in a different light. Because, despite all the crying I’ve been doing in the past few days, I need another good cry—the kind which connects me with people I’ve never met, all feeling some of the same sort of feelings that those of us who knew and loved my friend are feeling right now. A connection to the great ocean of the world’s sorrows, but at the same time, a connection to the world’s light. Because young adult books may leave us sad, but they will never just dump you into the middle of despair and leave you without a life vest. If John Green’s book is true to the tradition of young adult work, I’ll find what I’m looking for by the end. That glimmer of hope. That life vest I need so desperately right now.

As for my own words, I offer up a poem I wrote out of gratitude for having had my dear friend in my life. I include it here as a connection to the greater world. If you didn’t know my friend, at least you may get a sense of who she was—who she’ll always be. May she bring a little light to your life, as she has done for so many others. May she always be remembered.

   

Drawing a Lotus

with gratitude for Fal

From the dark paste,

like a seedling lifting

itself from the mud,

a flower emerged

and raised its head

to the light of the world.

From her warm hands

she gave the lotus life.

She blessed the skin,

she blessed the heart

of its bearer.

Mehndi maker,

on our souls

you drew a

life

so beautiful,

a pattern

so pure,

a love

so real

that it

could

never

fade.

Within the heavy

darkness of our hearts

a lotus stirs:

your love for us.

F. Prescott

1/13/13