The Attic

The Attic
I sit up above you,
on an old dusty beam,
feet hanging out over your heads.
You are talking,
but I don't listen.
People were born today,
people died.
Did they mean anything?
I don't know.
Maybe no one does.
Then I hear you say
"You know,
my eyes are nice, but
I don't like my eyebrows."
And somehow,
don't ask me why,
but that's funny.
I start to giggle,
then I laugh,
big gasps of laughter
ringing out into the shadows.
You look up,
to see what's so funny.
I've collapsed against the wall,
shaking,
about to fall off the beam.
"Is something wrong?"
But I can't speak to tell you.
I just laugh--
for eyebrows,
and life,
and death,
and suffering,
and loneliness,
and pain,
and fast food,
and bad science fiction,
and picnics,
and cardigans,
and lawyers
and rainbows,
and igloos,
and skyscrapers,
and England,
and sticky notes,
and oxygen,
and begonias,
and Donald Trump--
Everything is so clear and obvious,
from up on this beam.
Right now I can do anything.
I look down,
and see you:
my sister,
my oldest friend,
and my newest.
Can't you see?
I suddenly want to tell you
how much you mean to me--
you have seen me through so much,
cried with me,
played with me,
helped me up when I fell--
But all I can do is laugh,
laugh until the tears come,
and laugh some more.
Can't you see?