I stand with my hands gripping
The edge of the counter
Tears spilling to
The floor.
I can barely look at it
My birthday cake.
Here I am.
First birthday without her
And I stand alone.
No family came to celebrate
No family came to support me
During what is the most
Difficult day so far.
The aching for her
Is unbearable.
My heart cracks again
And sobs fall
From trembling lips.
No lit candles this year.
I am so sad
I am so angry
I am so lonely.
And another year begins.
The closer Christmas approaches
The more I feel you near.
Memories won’t stop unfolding
And it’s leaving me in tears.
You’re ghosting all the corners
Of every single room
Tis the season of light and merriment
And I’m deep in grief and gloom
I’m hearing snatches of your voice
As if your still here with me
I see the brightness of your love
in the lights on the Christmas tree
I don’t know how to do this
The holidays without you
How do I heal this ache in my soul
And figure out what to do.
This poem doesn’t want to be finished. I’ve been trying for several days now, and this is where it wants to end. Maybe once I get through this challenging time I’ll be able to look back and come up with an ending, I don’t know.
I’m just checking in.
To tell you all how I’ve been
I keep surfacing for air
And looking here and there
To see if the grief is gone
To see if life can go on.
But grief’s a cheeky bugger
And not much of a hugger
He tends to sneak up on me
From behind where I cannot see
So I quickly dive back down
Trying to find smiles in all the frowns
And try to be patient with me
Because that’s what mom would want to see.
Anger galloped like a stallion
From my throat and trembling lips
As grief enveloped in a scream.
Stampeding emotions
Uncontrolled
Unbridled
Unlimited in their scope
Depth and power
Ripple
Undulate
And crash
Through my senses
Leaving me exhausted and
Aching for a presence
Who is no longer there.
Never have I felt this
Lack of control
Over my emotions.
I have been reduced
To a quivering,
Gasping
Shell,
Drowning in the
Ocean that falls
From my eyes.
This need to
Have her back
Is all-consuming
I’m vaguely aware
Of the pleas
Tumbling from my lips
Please send her back to me.
Please send her back.
I gulp in the air only to have
The wracking sobs
Steal it back again.
My pain so tangible
Yet I feel numb to it.
Minutes feel like hours
Until the wave finally passes
And I am deposited
Bonelessly onto the
Still unfamiliar shores
Of this cold new reality.
The veil has lifted
The reality of my
Reality has set in.
I’m not doing
As well as I thought.
I’m caught in this
Glass-filled black
Fog.
Only moving through
The daily routines
And not making
Any strides forward.
Covered head to toe with
Microscopic cuts
That ooze grief
All over the place.
My mother passed away nine weeks ago now, and my siblings and I still have not gotten around to writing an obituary for her. I’ve been anxious to get it done for five weeks now and the response from them, at that time, was “There is no timetable for submitting an obituary so what’s the rush?” One of my sisters admitted she was avoiding working on it. I understand there is no timetable for publishing one, but I can’t help but feel like the longer we wait to write it, the less of a chance we ever will write one as a family. I am so torn between pushing them to start working on it and just waiting until they are ready. We are all processing this immense loss that we are all experiencing. After much contemplating about it, I decided this morning that I’m going to go ahead and write a draft of one and e-mail it to them just to see what they say. I can see one of three things happening if I do this. One, they will tell me that it’s okay and that I should go ahead and publish it. Two, my siblings will say to me that it’s a good start and they will edit it and make suggestions. Or three, they will react with anger and tell me that they will work on it in their own time. But, I can’t let their possible reactions stop me from doing what I feel my mother would want. When she could still read the newspaper, she would always look at the obituaries, and one thing that would drive her crazy was when she came across an obituary that was printed months after the person had died. I know in my heart how upset she would be to know that over two months had passed and there still wasn’t a published obituary for her.
I’ve also found that deciding to write an obituary and actually creating one are two substantially different things. How do you summarize the life of your Mother in less than 300 words? How do you take over 80 years of experiences and life and compress it into a newspaper-friendly size? Over the past several weeks I have tried to write one in fits and starts, but nothing ever sounds good enough to honor her. Nothing has even come close to capturing the magic and grace that was my mother. I can feel my resolve waffling again. I just want to follow my siblings lead and put it on a shelf somewhere and not work on it or think about it. Knowing that’s not what my mom would want though, won’t allow me to do that. The bottom line, in all this, rambling, is that I know what needs to be done. I need to push through this apprehension and feeling of inadequacy and do what my mom would have wanted. This obituary needs to be written sooner rather than later.
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”
— Washington Irving
Slowly spinning in a small boat
In the middle of the ocean
Rudderless, without a sail,
Without any compass bearing
To follow.
She was my direction in life.
With her, I knew where
My path led.
Now I feel purposeless
And adrift on an endless
Flat calm sea.
This morning the world held
Less color.
The wind in the trees
Sounding like mournful sighs
Not whispers of hope.
Five days it took
For the realization to
Sink in.
You are not coming home
There is no more you.
And I am alone.
I have felt frozen all day
Wrapped in blankets
And still, I shiver.
Emotions flood
And drown me.
The person I have been
Dies.
The person I am to become
Waits to be born.