Remembering

There's a woman sitting in the park.
She's crying, silently.

Eyes glassy and unfocused,
she makes no sudden movements.

I would pass her by and yet,
something grabs at me,

Forces me into the same stillness.
I hesitate, unsure of what to do

And even more, of what to say.
So I sit.

I stare straight ahead,
trying to see what she sees.

And now I'm crying, too.
Because it's not what she is seeing

That freezes her in place.
It's what she's not.

There's a gaping in her line of sight,
something that should be there but isn't.

Not now.
Not ever again.

And the emptiness reaches out
to find the emptiness that's inside her now.

I try several times to speak,
but my throat is dry and horribly tight.

I remember. "I remember."
It takes all my strength just to get those two words out.

Slowly, at last, she moves.
Her hand is in mine

And the fact that before today she was a stranger
doesn't matter,

Only the fact that I'm there,
and I feel the emptiness, too.