I feed the birds
I walk in the rain
I Windex the glass
I forget my toast in the toaster
I get dressed
I wear a necklace with navy blue beads
I wonder where you are
I look at the scattering of dogwood blossoms on the ground and think of you,
dead
We walk through the playground where you went to elementary school
You were alive
My umbrella is red
My necklace is blue
My heart is broken
Cliches cluster inside my aching throat
Those dogwood flowers shone pearly white, edges tinged with pink not long ago. Not long ago you were staring at a screen, face lit up — gaming? Or maybe researching where to buy ammunition for a 9mm gun
The dogwood blossoms rot. You are ashes
Muscle, bone, skin incinerated
I cook my strawberries
I buy local lettuce
You are gone. Gone
It’s almost time for lunch
Lentils and rice
Rice already cooked, lentils in a bag.
You are well and truly gone
Not every meal has to be from scratch.
In making you, our bodies traded genetic material. Some of me was in you and some of you is still in me. How do I think about this?
We pile up stuff
We fill the trunk
We drop boxes off
The weight of our belongings. So little of it holds meaning now, if it ever did.
I need a mug, my pillows, baskets of fabric, pins and thread, fans, a mirror or two, a few favorite paintings, my electric toothbrush. Some notebooks.
How little really!
What you needed was out of reach, beyond you, or so you thought. A life rendered impossible by a failure of imagination is one way to look at it.
I wish you could have stayed. I wish you were here. I wish you could have stayed.
Feathers? A picture falling off a shelf. That one dream. It’s not enough.
I know you’re at peace. At rest. That’s something. That gives me peace too.
My thumb hurts. My eyes are tired. Another day comes to an end.
PS Readers — forgive the repetitive nature of how I am processing the loss of Danny. I give myself permission to bore you, to repeat myself, to hammer the same words home over and over as I try to make sense of what makes no sense.
No forgiveness needed Dee 💙💙💙🕊️
Hi Pam. Thanks for saying so. And for being here.
💗
You will never bore me Dee!
Ha. Nice to know.
I am thinking about the lack of imagination thing, because I have been considering that a lot in these quiet offline days. The imagination/dream catching and how that softens life by allowing some sort of test run for experience. I need to think more.
Don’t worry about us, we’re here.
Test run. Hmm. And maybe it wasn’t a failure of imagination so much as a lack of an engine to drive the imagination. I don’t know. At some point it all becomes semantics. Your dream-catching also energizes you and your work and brings in new ideas that you happily chase. It’s wonderful to behold.
I guess we can’t know, being energized is a healthy state tho. Seems.
And being curious. Such an underrated and essential aspect of character.
I sit in silence, self-imposed, that needs to continue for me, as long as necessary, but I want you to know that I am here. I have banked my words, for now, but I read, and have read, your words. We often think of grief as an adjective, a descriptor but to me, grief is a noun, a blanket that covers us at times so much that we can hardly breathe. At other times, we temporarily fling it to the side as we try to bring some sort or order to our days for no matter what, we do try to go on… Grief asks a lot of questions and causes us to dig deep for understanding, regardless of the circumstances of our grief. Will answers come?
Dee, I have no idea but what I do know is that you share what is impossible to share, you open a vein, and speak your truths. How on earth would you think that your courage and honesty in sharing your deep sorrow would ever bore us or that apologies are ever needed. We are here for you, whether by responding in sentences or paragraphs of words, or, just by holding you close in our thoughts and hearts, with love, always.
Marti! Goosebumps of recognition and appreciation. Part of why I continue is
not to be praised, but to be held by you and loving others. I can’t say how much it means to me. And this comment? Rich, generous, thoughtful (as usual) but made during a timeout of your self-imposed and necessary silence? Even more appreciated. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Keep doing what you need to do…. death is such a mystery. Person still alive in memories. My dad has been gone so long but feels as close as ever.
People say that about the loved one feeling close. I hope I can say that about Danny in future.
Honesty in grief is often what many people hide. I’m certainly not glad that you are walking this path, but I’m grateful that you are brave enough to share these truths. Grief, in one form or another, comes for all. Of. Us. Yours is the most dreaded form. Thank you for allowing me in.
Thanks Lisa. It does indeed come for us all. We were talking yesterday about how there isn’t a word like “orphan” or “widow” for person who has lost a child and the conclusion was that not so many decades ago it was very, very common to lose a child.
Dee~ Well, you do neither – bore me or repeat yourself…for in my opinion, what you say each time has another new/different/expanded upon nuance. Plus, as a teacher of young children, who for literal Years, talked about how children learn through repetition. I believe that to be true for adults as well. So each post is a part of your process, a part of your learning (and ours too) and that is never boring. I’m almost laughing at myself as my own Bridge repetition comes to mind. But, every single time we go – something is new AND builds upon each previous visit.
Well, that was long-winded. ha
Just say what you want/need to, I (we) am here listening and bearing witness to a grief bigger than words. I am here learning from/with you.
Sending love.
Thank you Nancy. “He is gone. He is gone.” You’re right that the repetition is meant to rewire my brain with this new status which I am struggling to accept.
As for your bridge, it has become a familiar haunt for your readers too and hence a pleasure to visit.
Dee~ Plus, I will add – as I see it, and I could be wrong- that ‘he is gone’ repeated is a writing style (you ARE a writer after all) that helps to process. I know when I have written in a more ‘poetic’ style, it has helped to bring my feelings out to be examined and felt and maybe understanding to come, not as a contrived hook of some sort. So that is how I see some of your more repeated/poetic writing, as a tool to help you understand, bit by bit. Art heals. Writing is art.
Your writing is so authentic to you.
Hope that makes sense.
xo
PS You have often commented on those posts of mine, from your writers point of view, giving me the feeling they really connect for you. Mmm? We are complicated beasts, ain’t we?!!
You are on a grief journey no-one ever wants to be on. Listening is what we can do. All we can do.
It’s everything, the listening. Thank you.
So many emotions said in poem .. beautifully written. No matter what ever form it takes for you to get from one day to the next is all that matters. Your circle of friends and family that love you .. are here!! Always in all ways.
🩷🩷🩷