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| from my art journal 6.28.16 |
Memories are a shabby substitute.
Memories carry no weight.
Memories are not a body.
Memories carry little definition.
II.
Rob's illness was terminal.
Rob reached up.
Rob caught the back of my neck.
His hands were large, capable.
Live brilliantly.
III.
Some night I recall the feel of his hand.
I long to feel the weight.
IV
No weight.
No husband.
No hand.
V.
Rob's diagnosed.
Life is a parataxis.
Nothing is subordinated, coordinated.
One day fades.
A next appears.
Rinse and repeat.
Memories, shabby substitutes... your words gripped my heart. So true. I hear the rhythm of grief in your words, but I also hear the heartbeat of life. Beautiful words, haunting reality.
ReplyDeleteThank you Alice.
DeleteSome night I recall the feel of his hand.
ReplyDeleteI long to feel weight.
I ache for this. It used to frighten me that I would never be able to feel his hand again, dance with him again.
I know this poem in the depths of my being.
Bonnie K.
I know you do. Thanks.
DeleteThis is a soulful poem on loss, Mary Ann. I am listening because words cannot chime in to relieve the weight you bear.
ReplyDeleteI appreciate you saying that Carol. Bearing witness--listening matters so. Thank you.
DeleteI don't think I can find the right words.
ReplyDeleteMost days I can't either.
DeleteMary Ann-your art and words compliment each other so well. I feel the loss you feel.
ReplyDeleteThank you Vivian.
DeleteOh, your sorrow is captured in these words. "Memory is a shabby substitute," and "one day fades, the next appears, rinse and repeat."
ReplyDeleteYour journey is a hard one.
It is that. Thank you, Ramona.
DeleteI think you are living brilliantly and Rob would be proud. By sharing your journey with us, you are helping many who also struggle with the agony of loss.
ReplyDelete