by Robin Byrd

We don’t always know how our work affects others. We hope it inspires. We hope it bears witness to the thing, any…thing, some…thing. We hope it marks time or opens the windows to let time out. We hope, yet can only speculate.

In January of this year, Los Angeles was burning. Sleep was a luxury for those outside the fire lines; prayer was a necessity for those inside. Food was an afterthought. I called a friend, “Can I come to you if I have to evacuate?” Otherwise, where would I go? The urgent evacuation alert told us to pack important items and be ready to go. My car would not start. No matter how many times I turned it over, it would not catch. Time slowed like a scene from Inception. Streets were blocked, curfew was in effect, and there was no one to come get me. It was a long night of praying the evacuation order didn’t go into active status, praying the fires didn’t turn toward me, praying the wind would just stop blowing. I spent the night checking funds and rental car agencies in the area. In the morning, I walked to a car rental agency and rented a car.

I packed water and more water, copies of my work, funeral programs, Bibles, important papers, and clothes I could re-wear over and over again.

I packed the lump in my chest and the memory of what it’s like to be physically on fire. After all these years, I could feel ten-year-old me running through the house, screaming as my terry cloth robe burned. Where was I going? Freakin’ flashback.

Even though I was affected on the outskirts, there were friends in the thick of it who had to leave because the fire was upon them.  Friends who lost some and friends who lost all. Nevertheless, they are alive, and that was my biggest prayer for them. Loss is always devastating. Reconciling yourself to what is left is a long, hard task.

I wrote a poem for one of these friends ten years ago. It was on my mind to replace the framed copy I gave them. I don’t know why. A few days ago, I received an email from another friend who said that of all the things this person lost, they mentioned the poem. This other friend wanted to know if I would mind them reframing it for our friend.  Imagine.

The poem took me ten years to write. It was a conscious, subconscious project that I mulled over, making mental notes while checking the air for signs of shifting timelines. After all that mulling over, the poem did not come to the page until the night before the reading. Printed, framed, and stuffed in a bag, I made my way to the event. I did a quick read-through with another friend outside the venue. The reading was a success. And now, ten years after that, the words are still speaking.

I am honored, humbled, and encouraged.

Lately, I have been wondering if my work counts, and by extension, do I? Guess that’s an all-around “Yes.”

Words count…even the time it takes for them to be born matters…