how I fell in love again
with the sun on solstice morning.
Her warmth pulled me back
to myself and all the living
I have yet to do.
I miss you most in these moments,
when I’d share
another ridiculous whimsy of mine
and you’d take it as seriously
as a selkie takes the ocean.
Maybe this is why you called me Joy.
That never made sense to me.
It wasn't as much joy as survival.
I know the limits of my moth-eaten memory
and no matter what well-meaning people say
it isn’t the same as you still being alive at all,
not even a little.
I am left making up stories instead
about the sun and the stars
Song Choice: Welcome to the Black Parade covered by Halocene, Violet Orlandi, and Lauren Babic
I know the limits of my moth-eaten memory
and no matter what well-meaning people say
it isn’t the same as you still being alive at all,
not even a little.
I am left making up stories instead
about the sun and the stars
caring enough to watch me
scavenge strands of joy
from the little moments of living,
in the hopes of weaving something beautiful
enough to honor who you were.
from the little moments of living,
in the hopes of weaving something beautiful
enough to honor who you were.
Image from Anne with an E
Song Choice: Welcome to the Black Parade covered by Halocene, Violet Orlandi, and Lauren Babic
Liner Notes for this Groove: Today is the birthday of a friend of mine who passed away. These were just thoughts I had about it.
Well and beautifully said!
ReplyDeleteThank you Debra
DeleteA beautiful tribute to your friend. May the eternal light shine upon her....Rall
ReplyDeleteThank you Rall
DeleteLots of love in this.. the last two lines especially... it's the best we can do.. honour their memory by weaving something beautiful... sigh.
ReplyDeleteWhat the weaving will look like in the end is anyone's guess, but there is something comforting (if not entirely healing) in the attempt.
DeletePerhaps she called you that because of all the joy you brought her? All the joy you found in each other's company?
ReplyDeleteNow, as Kahlil Gibran said in much better words than mine, you haven't lost that joy, but it's inextricably entwined with the grief because they are indeed two sides of the same coin.
There's no comfort I can possibly offer; but for myself I would not forego past joy, and the memory of it, even in order to evade the pangs of present and ongoing grief.
I wouldn't sacrifice a nanosecond of that joy either.
DeleteMother Nature is good. She makes us to feel better every we get a whiff of her healing breath.
ReplyDeleteI would like for you to come back and read mine again. I didn't want my poor cow to die, SHE butchered the puns that she tried to tell
Sorry.
Thanks for this wonderful prompt.
..
I'll go back there and give it a re-read Jim
DeleteLike my dear-ones passed an integral part of you is both missing and with you somehow. Your memories are, indeed, salvaged strands of joy woven into something beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThank you Penelope
DeleteBeautifully done and very moving. Making up stories of stars, trying to connect those dots and feel the warmth holding us. Reminds me of a poem I wrote once:
ReplyDeleteWe put stars in poems
because we lost one of our parents
who followed two of our brothers
and we like to pretend
that the night sky is a city
and if we give good directions
they might come home
for Thanksgiving this year
That's very lovely, Colleen. Thank you for sharing that.
DeleteI hadn't ventured far into your lovely poem without knowing who you were writing about ~ this brought a lump to my throat, tears to my eyes.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad my words were moving
Delete"I am left making up stories instead
ReplyDeleteabout the sun and the stars
caring enough to watch me" -
these lines sort of sums up all the deep grief that is inside.
Thank you dsnake
DeleteI like the idea of doing things that honor who our departed friends were, and what they stood for while living.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Priscilla
DeleteBeautiful and sad. That joy existed is what counts.
ReplyDeleteThank you for this beautiful and very affecting poem, Rommy. Without knowing, you wrote it for my deceased friend too, who was also born in June. Like the speaker in the poem, "I am left making up stories instead / in the hopes of weaving something beautiful / enough to honor who you were."
ReplyDeleteThats so heartfelt, and if angels can hear, I'm sure she is loving it. And you, still.
ReplyDeleteThis is my second reading of this poem. And this time around "I know the limits of my moth-eaten memory / and no matter what well-meaning people say / it isn’t the same as you still being alive at all, / not even a little" stuck in my heart.
ReplyDelete