Vox Populi:

First, I heard of your death. Then I heard about your poetry; various—maybe many—people read the now-most-famous poem—“If I Must Die”—or sections of it as part of the news. Like many thousands of others, I bought your book, as a sort of remembrance or sympathy card, something concrete to hold onto, honoring and remembering your life and death. It’s a far cry from the kite you requested, a kite to be seen flying high in the heavens. A kite to bring hope and love to a child, perhaps to one of your children, looking skyward somewhere in Gaza.

Still, there is a tale and I’m writing to tell it. Let me say I found the poem’s opening lines, “If I must die / you must live,” extremely significant. Such a clear instruction to those of us under the weight of the ongoing catastrophe, wondering what to do. Wondering, can we, in good conscience, go about our daily lives knowing the urgency of the situation in Palestine, knowing, in my case, that it’s my government and my tax dollars funding the death and destruction. I’m inspired, and grateful for your dictate that we live.

For the first time, I’ve taken over some vegetable planting in our garden. I thought of you as I pushed in a pound’s-worth of onion sets, hoping to grow “better” onions than we’ve gotten in the past. I thought of you as I hoed and scratched the clumped, rich river-bottom dirt in the garden to ensure my tiny carrot seeds would grow into nice, straight carrots. I thought of you as I planted sweet peas along the garden fence. And the chickens; I had to rebuild my flock, diminished by predators. It was OK, I realized; this is also my life, to be obsessed by possible chick opportunities on Craigslist, OK to check every few hours even as things deteriorated in Gaza.

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