Yesterday alone over 13,789 people on the other side of the equator and all
across the world called a suicide hotline.
I’m just kidding. Not because there was some punchline in there to swallow
like a good strong drink, but because the real numbers are probably much worse,
I’ve never been in a healthy relationship with statistics that doesn’t involve
one of us leaving after a plate-shattering, wall-punching argument,
and my hands are shaking as I write this.
So let me tell you something about love:
somewhere next to a fault line in California, a man calls a hotline
and instead of summer rains, a 6-pack of beers disguised as windchimes,
candles that light the soul instead of the room, whatever it was
he was looking for, a voice answered
and gave him one reason to live.
This isn’t the kind of story where the reader gets to know what it was,
but suffice it to say he lived and stayed on the line, and when the next woman
called up, weeping because there were no more kite strings left to lift her up
and the baby wasn’t going to be born after all, the man told her the operator’s reason
and she passed it on to the next caller, a teenager so full of salt & losing all the sugar
that they no longer looked at the Big Dipper
without envisioning it as a noose.
And the woman gave the reason to the teenager,
and the teenager gave it to the caller fourth in line, who just so happened
Then when the day was done, and the earth had met the sun,
the reason was passed on to me, and then to you.
And this is what I know about love.