A very long time ago I wrote what I considered prose or maybe it was poetry; I’m not very good at identifying genres. Be this as it may, I will share with you (over time) my own genre entitled: Thoughts.
OLD SWEATER: Her aged hands hold knitting needles as if in a fencing duel. Skeins of yarn wend their way out of her basket. Click/click/click… Fabric is woven into a meshwork of color. Her stitches conjoin threads for the creation. A whittled form emerges from her needled skill. Her love is its texture.
BURYING: Street faces serve as sentinels for the funeral procession. Darkly clothed mourners stand in sorrow-laden silence. A warm breeze carries religious rites to my wintery soul. Painful emotions kill my heart as the knife they drew from yours. Your tomb awaits and I throw dirt instead of a blanket over you.
March 3, 2011 – It’s been quite a week – one of those we all grow from or suffer the consequences.
My grandson, sixteen, lost his grandfather who died without warning. The funeral and gave-side service were yesterday. How this intimate first exposure to sorrow will mold his character, only time will reveal to us. The immediacy is shock. There will be attempts to bargain for a different outcome. Beat to death the reasons why this happened. In anger we’ll shout at those we love the most. They will likewise have their moment with us. We’ll wake at three in the morning startled by the reality. Some of us will take on God to find answers for our grief. We’ll say, “This can’t have happened!” I know this because I’ve had many kinds of loss in my lifetime. My grandson, on the other hand, just stepped onto the pathway to his… Now that is truly sorrowful.
I hurt my back a week ago, bending over instead of kneeling to accomplish some simple task. I know better, so my lack of self-alertness made me very angry. In my mind I’m still forty, however, my body never got the memorandum (or tweets in these social media days). Aging is but one more form of sorrow that we all go through. And, like losing a loved one, at times it also catches us off-guard. Each of us will deal with the reality in different ways; although I’m certain we’ll meet head-on all five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Well, maybe not acceptance. I’m still looking into this phenomenon.
Yet, as I so often find, there is a bright spot to our week… Dahlia, a two-month old puppy we adopted from our local animal shelter. She is a lab/retriever mix and an absolute delight. Guess what, she requires frequent walks and these help my back to heal. Her baby-like curiosity reminds me to look anew at life and find its promise. So it would seem that loss and new life are with us each day and in every way we can imagine…Janet