Take care, my lovely
Though the breaths may be hasty
And the lines may be shallow
The moon is still crisp.
Shining upon your quivering fingers
Awake from your nightmares
Rise from the night
My sweet one.
I am with you
With waves of calm
With the pressing force of motion
Spinning becomes swaying
Swaying becomes rocking
Back and forth.
I cradle you, new emotion.
I am not some lesson to be learned.
Some hideous example of
“what to do, what not to do.”
My writing is not a compendium on grief.
Forwards, backwards, inside out,
I leave holes, gaps, questions unanswered.
I am not a litany of cliches.
Each trigger cuts me sideways.
Each reminder brings to the forefront
any muted emotions.
No metaphor can capture.
It is a mere solitary experience.
Me + Puppy
She covers my face with her exuberance, her energy.
Easy to forget I am there.
The distraction of puppy versus baby.
No eyes on my strained face.
Absence easily conversed, forgotten.
Thanksgiving morning with triggers abound
I took her for a languid walk.
Stark, crisp leaves, crunching, deadened.
Stillness in the morning
Neighbors have not yet started festivities.
Pond gently murmuring its last bubbles.
I am grateful for the gray sky, a moment’s silence.
We turn the corner and pass a small group of owners with dogs, also sneaking away for a walk.
I raise my hand and call out a hello.
And am ignored.
They don’t see me at all, keep walking.
We are tangled up in her energy.
It hid my sadness.
Saying NO is like casting a circle of protection around what is most true, claiming it as yours.
It was not meant to be.
I won’t apologize for my tears.
It will not be your timetable; it will be mine.
I am not healed.
I am not strong.
Nor am I weak.
I will not be invalidated.
“There is an aloneness that is not loneliness, and not despair, and western medicine hasn’t got a clue. It is something like a profound closeness with your own being, an intimacy with the quiet passing of things, friendship with the broken and the transient with and without. when you quietly grieve over yeterday’s dreams of tomorrows that never came, you hold today so close in your arms. You are the mother of today.” -Jeff Foster
There is not one day
There is not one way in which
I am not altered.
There is a quiet breaking
of the heart, a loss of any
hardness in peering into oneself.
It is a secret place, something held
closely only with the
presence of grief.
Somewhere only I can visit.
The secret garden behind a wall; I knew as a child.
There is an intense knowledge in its contents.
Memories and experience, that belong only to me.
I can awake.
I know grief.
I can move through it.
I can navigate the thick hanging ivy and the nettles
secluded behind the wall.
When I describe the agony
and receive nothing more than a pithy acknowledgment.
It is me. It is my song.
It is a transcending human struggle,
To love and grieve so unapologetically.
A flower blooms every spring.