|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.
Rob's illness was terminal.
Rob reached up.
Rob caught the back of my neck.
His hands were large, capable.
Some night I recall the feel of his hand.
I long to feel the weight.
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.ReplyDelete
Thank you Alice.Delete
Some night I recall the feel of his hand.ReplyDelete
I 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.
I know you do. Thanks.Delete
This is a soulful poem on loss, Mary Ann. I am listening because words cannot chime in to relieve the weight you bear.ReplyDelete
I appreciate you saying that Carol. Bearing witness--listening matters so. Thank you.Delete
I don't think I can find the right words.ReplyDelete
Most days I can't either.Delete
Mary Ann-your art and words compliment each other so well. I feel the loss you feel.ReplyDelete
Thank you Vivian.Delete
Oh, your sorrow is captured in these words. "Memory is a shabby substitute," and "one day fades, the next appears, rinse and repeat."ReplyDelete
Your journey is a hard one.
It is that. Thank you, Ramona.Delete
I 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