The Art of Losing

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I am not easily frightened. I am unfazed by spiders and bugs. Finances never keep me up at night. I don't fear that the random man walking towards me will rape or kidnap me. But I am terrified at the thought of death. Rape me or take me, but don't kill me. Bite me and gross me out, but just don't inject me with any poison that will cause my heart to stop.

Yesterday, I found out that a girl I used to work with died Sunday night. She was my age and had a six year old daughter, Jasmine, who was her inspiration for going back to school to get a degree. Because she was a single mother, she used to bring Jasmine to work with her and, while she cleaned rooms, I would keep the precocious six-year old at the front desk. Because I lost my father at a young age, I can imagine what this little girl will go through. Every Christmas will be a reminder of what she does not have, and what she is missing. She is learning what some people will be lucky enough to never learn: that life can be unfair to the poor and the young and the vulnerable, who are all too often one in the same. Many times she will ask herself "How would my life be different if my mother had lived?" The sad part is that she will never know.

My 85 year old neighbor died last week. He had struggled with cancer for years and his death was no surprise to his family. His youngest son is my age and his oldest is in her fifties. They lived a nice, full life with their family intact and whole. I admit, I am jealous. Not only for me, but for Jasmine and others that I know have lost someone important to them too early. My tears for Jasmine are tears for myself. I have not yet mastered the art of losing.