It could have been you

It could have been you, you know
and I’d be there
laying down flowers, red carnations
or sunflowers, if you prefer
or the darkest roses I was able to find
and crying over you
or it could have been me
but I was writing my paper and thus wasn’t there
or it could have been the two of us
late for work
again or early
for once and proud of that.
It could have been my aunt who
works just about an hundred meters from the place
and takes this very same line every afternoon
or it could have been my grandma
who has just returned from a very long vacation
and hasn’t overcome her jetlag yet
and is still readjusting to her home of 15 million
39 of whom are dead now.
Or it could have been you
or me
or both of us
dead.
But it wasn’t. We weren’t there unlike
39 fathers, mothers,
daughters, sons, aunts and uncles, wives
and husbands
lovers
friends
who have not seen their best friends in a while
there’s always much to do
grandmothers
who have always meant to give that very special thing
or story or advice to their granddaughters
just waiting for the right moment
lovers who meant to say: I love you. You’re my light.
My sky. My life.
But won’t have a chance anymore
two thirds of them were under 40, they say. Why 40,
I wonder? Why not:
four fifths of them were under 50? or half of them
were just about my age
It could have been one of our friends
or their friends
brothers
or sisters
And with all the trouble, all the pressure
everyday life and all the little things
like washing up
or doing laundry
we tend to forget how much our lives depend on
chance

how fragile we are
we hang on to the illusion of safety
of independence and everlasting tomorrow
and we take it all serious:
the washing up
the doing laundry
the jetlag, the writing papers, all of it
And we forge that
it could have been you, you know
with me, laying down flowers for you
red carnations
or sunflowers, if you prefer
and crying.