My mom passed away May 21. She was an amazing woman who lived a beautiful life. A well-loved lady, she was appreciated for her fine cooking and kind heart. She taught me compassion, sharing and resiliency. It’s difficult to move forward without her, but it’s time. Dwight, you have been my champion; keeping me mindful of routine, exercise, napping and sometimes just playing or letting out a melodic howl. Despite my best attempts; memories, longings and regrets find their way into my being. The past spills and I sop it up with my heart. I’m not sure how to stop it. Some days I don’t want to. My words struggle to surface through the past and breathe life into the present.
Grief sits in my writing chair, blocking me from the table. He seems aware that the words in my head will begin the healing process, banishing him from the room. Grief is clever. He hides in the corner behind the plant, always in the shadows, growing larger as he feeds on past despairs. Sometimes, a short grief visit keeps me grateful for the here and now. Sometimes the melancholy drowns me.
You soften the sadness, Dwight. Your brown eyes soothe my soul. Your cold, wet nose pushes my arm, encouraging pen to paper, knowing this is what I need. So we start again. One breath, one word at a time. I wrote this poem at the beach a few weeks ago.
The ocean is noisy today. Her waves crash and rip at the shore. I close my eyes as my thoughts drown in the surf. She spits out a winter coat, studded with barnacles, lying abandoned on the beach, its story buried by blowing sand. What’s my story? I need to start again. My words, like waves, tumble in my head, ever reaching and retreating. Rinsed and pulled under, some never surfacing again.
We still have lots of stories to share, Dwight. Thanks for listening.