Grief is a ghost.
“I welcome you all,” she creaks from the rafters.
“Orphans, Parents, Widows, Widowers,
Sisters, Brothers, Friends.”
We shudder at her breath, just beyond the surface when a rock star dies,
we hear a friend has cancer, we read the news,
imagining her as some long haired harpy with claws and a veil.
But once you’ve entered in…you feel the change.
She’s not so frightening after all, just elusive and strange.
At times, you escape her magnetic pull.
Still you can’t see her in that space, it’s her world now.
She’s dark, she’s light, she’s old, she’s new. She’s vast.
You can only feel her as she swoops down at any given moment,
passing through you with a memory, a song, an exotic emotion…
most likely when you’ve felt fine for a few days,
when you aren’t paying attention.
You begin to keep your guard up, but she disappears again.
No doubt visiting another hurting soul, pulling them in,
playing with their minds until she remembers you’re still there.
She likes variety. She likes surprise.
You can feel yourself toughening up as you learn the game,
eyes adjusting to the dark.
67
Cool, Allison! Interesting, poetic, personal, and relevant words. Kinda like their author.
Thanks Jim. I can’t take credit for it all. Justine drew the picture. 🙂 Heheheh
Allison,
Glad the kids are keeping with you during this hard time in your life and also theirs as well. It is hard to be left at 14 or 6 with no Dad.
I have Maki’s Mom as a FB friend.
Becky
Allison, A beautiful and poignant metaphor for that spectre that comes and goes. As time goes by you learn how to converse, and realize that it is possible to let go of the grief as a familiar companion without losing the memories. Thank you for sharing your journey. Randy
‘Our revels now are ended’
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
William Shakespeare
From The Tempest, Act 4 Scene 1