The Difference

Don’t be sad.

Seriously.

You will be amazed

at how little anyone notices

when I am gone.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a

“Call the police, she vanished into the swamp and left only a suspicious amount of horse hair behind” kind of way.

Just…

gone.

Like the other night…I left.

And even the people

I thought might notice didn’t.

Nothing caught fire.

Nobody formed a search party.

No one stood dramatically on a balcony staring into the middle distance saying,

“Where arte thou Christy?”

Life rolled on with all the grace and urgency

of a shopping cart with one bad wheel.

And that got me thinking.

Because eventually,

somebody will remember me.

Not because they miss me.

Let’s not get carried away.

No.

Somebody will need something.

They’ll need me to pay for something.

Pick something up.

Drive somebody somewhere.

Make a phone call.

Talk to a person I know.

Find a thing.

Fix a thing.

Explain a thing.

Carry a thing.

Remember a thing.

And suddenly they’ll think,

“Wait.

Isn’t there a woman who usually does this?”

And then they’ll remember

I’m still alive.

I’ve spent so much of my life being useful

that people mistake usefulness for presence.

I’m not always a person.

Sometimes I’m a service.

A department.

A bridge.

A piece of public infrastructure.

Nobody writes poetry about the bridge.

They just drive across it.

Every day.

Without wondering if it’s tired.

Without asking what it cost.

Without noticing the bolts rattling loose underneath.

And maybe that’s why this week has felt a little sharp around the edges.

Because in Los Angeles,

twenty-six hundred miles away,

there’s a reunion happening.

A room full of retired railroad people.

People who knew me when my knees worked better.

When my hair was darker.

When I carried coffee pots through rocking train cars

and could remember three hundred passengers’ names.

And somewhere in that room someone is asking,

“Where’s Christy?”

And somebody else is saying,

“She couldn’t make it.”

And somebody is disappointed.

And somebody is wishing

they could see me.

And somebody is telling a story

that starts with

“Remember when she…”

And for a moment

I exist.

Not because I am useful.

Not because I am needed.

Just because I am remembered.

And isn’t that a strange thing?

There are people

two thousand six hundred miles away wondering where I am.

And there are people

twenty-five miles away

who wouldn’t notice if I fell clean off the edge of the earth.

Not out of cruelty.

Not because they’re bad people.

Just because we get busy.

We get distracted.

We start assuming

the bridge will always be there.

The bridge is strong.

The bridge can handle it.

The bridge doesn’t need maintenance.

The bridge doesn’t need company.

The bridge certainly doesn’t need

a thank-you card.

And maybe that’s why

when a couple people offered

to buy me a plane ticket

I should have said yes.

I should have let somebody

carry me for a change.

I should have let somebody

do the thing

I am always doing for everyone else.

Imagine that?

What a radical concept.

Me.

Receiving help.

It sounds fictional.

Like a Hallmark movie written by people who have never met me.

But maybe next time.

Maybe next time

I’ll know.

Maybe next time

I’ll stop confusing independence

with worth.

Maybe next time

I’ll accept the ticket.

Accept the ride.

Accept the kindness.

Accept the evidence

that somewhere

someone actually wanted me there.

Not because I was useful.

Not because I could solve a problem.

Not because I knew a guy.

Not because I could organize something.

Just because I was me.

But enough of this.

Self-pity is an ugly outfit.

And besides, I’ve got a meeting to get to.

Because there are young artists who need encouragement.

There are people who need a place to stand.

There are things to build.

There are dreams to nudge forward.

There are humans

who need humans.

And apparently, despite all available evidence,

I am still one of the humans

who shows up.

So I’ll go.

I’ll bring my folding chair heart.

My duct-tape soul.

My toolbox full of phone numbers.

My bridge bolts.

My railroad stories.

My ridiculous optimism.

And I’ll keep doing

what I have always done.

But maybe, just maybe,

I’ll remember something

the bridge forgets.

A bridge is useful.

A bridge is necessary.

A bridge carries people home.

But a bridge deserves to be noticed sometimes too. ❤️