Not that these people are angels (ha, another metaphor). They are, after all, the reason I’m so exhausted—I think I talked to every single one of them today about some problem or fear or complaint. But that’s just it, I realized, talking to a woman at the beach tonight (you’d like her, she’s working on this series of poems about the fight to keep a brain-dead woman alive, I guess you’d say it’s pro-life?). They’re coming to me, instead of keeping everything hidden. They’re not afraid (as I always was) of being judged. There’s something honest and on the surface about them and the fact that they know everyone is here for the same purpose. But also, they’re different: we have a preacher’s wife, an R&B singer (I won’t say who, but he’s pretty famous), a veteran, former teachers, housewives, moms, dads, grandparents, a few younger people (no one as young as you).

It’s my job to take care of their needs while they’re here, though I’m not teaching them. I suppose I’m a little like you in that way, a behind-the-scenes preparer and organizer—that hadn’t occurred to me until tonight, when I sat down to write. I meant to write a poem—I had an idea about the green light, this flash of light that appears green as the sun goes down—but wound up with more things to say to you. Starting with: I know I haven’t tried very hard to understand you or your recent choices, you as an adult. I am working on it. I promise. I think this place may help.