“God damn me to this hell and heaven is the same, it is a true wonder I breathe at all…”
I could give no voice to my grief after the death of my son, but like an opaque ghost haunting the depths of shattered beliefs- I had become invisible until I wrote those words. Grief then became my seeing eye dog, my teacher, my soul/sole instructor-she sat me down nearly every day and repeated a story that I did not want to hear. I fought my teacher with words, I disrespected death with poetry- I lied every day when I said, “He is gone.” But in poems, I spoke only truth-
“…death does not a life erase-
some memories never multiply
but new ones leave their trace…”
I could see by my words, in time-brightness, the way life loomed endlessly over the horizon while death, like a mountain- stood fast under the vast limitless sky.
“…I will portray him in frameless pictures
large as life, long as the sky
vivid as the sun…”
The mountains, the sky, the memories, the stories….all are my teachers now, while grief merely stands in the shadow of death and whispers.
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