Missing Poem by Dennis Ryan

Friday morning, May 20,2005,10: 30 am

"I also experience... envy for those who stay behind, whom I see on my return,
their faces unshadowed by dislocation or what seems to be enforced mobility,
happy with their families, draped in a comfortable suit and raincoat, there for all to see.
Something about the invisibility of the departed, his being missing and perhaps missed... "
- Edward Said, OUT OF PLACE

We are almost the disappeared ones, almost the invisible ones, missing,
lost somewhere in America.Maybe we will scatter, disperse, disappear soon,
but for now we remain a family that moves from place to place, calling nowhere
home—calling nowhere our address and zip code.No one seems to be aware of us,
and, of course, no one would be who lives like us.You'd think someone would notice,
care, pay attention, but no one does.It feels strange living like this, not allowed
to settle down in one place.We had a house once, a home, and everything
was so good then though we didn't realize it; you can't replace that feeling.
You don't die in a plane crash, or drown like the little girl does in the pond in
A Map Of The World, but you feel missing like her, and you wonder if anyone
notices, misses you like her mother misses her.If you're lucky enough to talk
with friends and family, and they have lived in the same places for a long time,
you envy that, but they have no idea how you live and feel.You want to tell them.
You want to tell them, but you know they won't understand.I guess that's what
this poem's about, so someone might.I wouldn't wish this life on anyone.