Does Issa speak of longing? His tears? Or continuing, despite the tears? I first read these lines a handful of years ago. When I was too attached. Unwilling to go on without—
My beautiful boy. I was unable to save him. The smartest doctors in the world were unable to save him. And then, I couldn’t bring him back. No matter how hard I cried, or what magic I performed, or how many letters I arranged. Continue reading
Happy stories, sad stories
Happy or funny stories compel people to “Like” and “Share” them. Inspirational, uplifting and amusing stories sometimes go viral. That’s the incredible thing about the internet. It can inform, inspire, entertain, and connect us.
But, it is counterintuitive to “Like” mournful stories much less “Share” them. Isolating further the one who is sharing from the most desolate and lonely place.
The following quote is from Why I Want You To Like That My Baby Died: Supporting Grief Through Social Media by Devany LeDrew, which I found here.
“When I post about my grief, your like is a silent nod of acknowledgement. I understand that you may have no words. While a heartfelt sentiment is best (even a ❤ or typing my daughter’s name is comforting), I know that you may be pressed for time or struggling with what to say. Clicking like makes me feel less alone.
“If I say I miss my daughter, you can like that. I give you permission. I know that you don’t “like” my grief. Instead, you are letting me know that you remember her instead of just scrolling by.”
Stories of death, especially the death of a child, are dark, taboo even. And have been, since…well, always. It is the scariest notion any parent can fathom. My child died and I am still afraid of this unfathomable idea. Afraid it could happen again. But being afraid doesn’t help, or keep us safe, does it? Continue reading
Poem #30: “S”
In a dream
a small boy visited me,
golden nimbus around his face,
lucent white skin
and lustrous eyes,
green like the Nile.
His features captivated me,
but I loved his humor the most.
His laughs were musical sounds
from another place.
He stamped smiles and danced
with pure energy,
and acted out his thoughts
for me to see.
For he didn’t speak,
yet he clearly understood my words
and appeared to delight in them.
I held my dream child close,
and he knew I would love him
He circled me with joy
and ran on airspace, laughing.
Then whispered by me,
waving his hand,
Be right back.
I called for him to stay near.
When suddenly he was felled
by some unseen collision
that took his breath.
I fell to my knees and cried
over my small angel child.
I buried my face in his whiteness
and heard unrecognizable cries
that haunt me still.
“Wake up! Please! Please! Please, wake up!
No! Oh, no. No. No…”
His glow lingered and reflected off a mist
that enveloped me and echoed my wails.
The steam wept with me for that small,
spotless, sleeping soul
dissolving in my arms—ashes.
I held nothing but myself—skin and bones.
And beside me his dust grew into a tree,
as if blown with breath
through a straw, painted on canvas.
The branches spread out and multiplied,
ready for leaves yet to come.
And in the tree’s center—its heart,
the initial, S, was engraved.
And it went up as the tree grew tall.
In memory of my Sam. My son. My beautiful boy.
March 2, 1998 – April 30, 2007
Poem #25: “Child”
Strong and silent
My apologies for this snarky poem. Starting to show some NaPoWriMo wear and tear. Wrote commentary (below) to explain more.
Poem #18: “Interview”
What do you do?
I’m into haiku
Where do you work?
In my head (smirk)
How much does it pay?
Nothing, but Namaste
So how do you eat?
At a table, on a seat
No, I mean—
I know what you mean
And how do you dress?
In tie-dye no less
Do your words always rhyme?
No, and I’m out of time
I see…so we’re through?
I am, aren’t you?
No, just one question more
Look, I really don’t need another chore
Just tell me, my friend, why your eyes are so sad
Because…because…my son is still dead
I’m sorry, real sorry, to hear of your sorrow
Call me again, then? Maybe tomorrow?
I will…I’ll do that…I’ll try you again
And maybe then, I can ask how you’ve been