“Grief is not silent, just inarticulate.” - Bernadette Rule
There is no such thing as good grief.
Until the moment of impact
I will continue to give
the courtesy
of polite tears.
I turn my face downward
gazing upon the hell that
I was foolish enough to pursue.
Because he silenced his own screams,
mine were silenced, too.
Darkness doesn’t wait for invitation,
the neglect of a cracked door is more than enough.
Why were my screams always silent to him?
It is not a human ability
to give
eyes to see
and
ears to hear.
Lest he understand
why I couldn’t believe him.
Promises of repentance
ring out of tune
when not followed by
expected penance.
I turn my face upward
the heavens spill ash upon me
this is not the overflow I asked for.
Purple flowers fall, aflame,
and it was not me who set them on fire.
For me,
they were a sign he wished he could be better.
But he would never be better for me.
I can forget him not.
My calendar swears that I am busy.
Busy.
Always so busy.
Too busy to cry.
Too busy to feel.
I don’t have the time Grief asks for.
She insists on being a priority…
if only she knew what it’s like to live in New York City.
I can spare only one second
to be a peeping tom
watching my grief undress itself,
promising to one day
undress me.
I will not be seduced.
Maybe one peak
will relieve this pressure.
Our eyes meet, releasing
the moment of impact.
While some ashes spiral around
others sit collected neatly in an urn
saturated, not that long ago,
by the log cabin
and boxes of brownie mix
and water tubing helmets
and monogrammed snail mail
that I remember you to be.
The day that Deryl covered you in dirt
everyone assumed their perennial positions.
Dad stood at the forefront,
an unelected official.
Jennifer passed out the tissues,
handing each of us the comfort of being seen.
She will be the best in helping us to remember you.
And finally
Deryl shoveled the dirt over your ashes
which feel as though they had already fallen
years ago
when your memory went.
Deryl always assumed the hard work of hands
which none of us ever thank him enough for.
Here
at the turn of the year
I am finally able to sit with my sad music again.
I am no longer the victim
of these self-fulfilling prophecies;
I allowed Grief to hold my favorite lyrics for a time,
but now, reclaimed, they are mine:
I will keep Manhattan,
I know it’s what I want.
I know you’ll want to see me again
but you’re stuck in colder weather
and tomorrow won’t be better.
I’ve always loved
Jason Robert Brown’s strings and melodies;
even more so now that
the unfaithfulness of Jamie
has become wistful nostalgia to me.
Though I’m covered in scars I did nothing to earn,
someone, someday will promise me all of their next ten minutes.
Two grandparents gone
in two months;
I choose to believe that
when God took them back, he said,
“Hallelujah, you’re home.”
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?
Maybe there is such a thing as good grief.
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