Before you, the most alive
I had felt was while eating
a za’atar sandwich under
a clear, starry sky
during a warm, and quiet summer night.
And I was so happy at that
moment, because I felt it.
I could feel the moment being made.
I could feel the moment poets
wrote about, and artists tried
to capture. I kept on thinking
about the line that was mentioned
in that one Indian movie I watched a while back,
“I now believe I exist.”
I did. Who wouldn’t?
I could feel the whole world
beneath my feet, and I couldn’t
fathom the endlessness of the sky
above me. It was scary.
It was amazing. It was everything
I wanted it to be.
But it isn’t the most alive I’ve
felt. Not now.
When I think about the most alive I’ve felt, I do not
think about that night spent
amongst the stars.
I think about the afternoon
Daddy got us Yummy Rice
for lunch. We were in the kitchen.
I had a few bites, but I couldn’t
eat. I didn’t want to. And that’s not only
because shock and sadness sorta tend to get rid
of any appetite you had, but I had
also realized that while you had just
been put in the ground to rest
till the end of time,
I was possibly doing one of the most “alive” things one can do.
I was eating.
And I have never felt more aware of the life in my body.