modern grief

I am thinking about those Victorian girls who went crazy

doing their duty of sitting by the deathbeds of old men.

Your energy is a deep pool and you would like

to sink me in it like a stone. Yesterday you smirked

and said, sorry this business of dying is so boring.

You are not sorry at all. Just the tiniest bit concerned

that we won’t honor your free pass for all the attention.

Oh, I would like to write about anything but this today.

Snuggle in my soft clothes drinking tea and watching

the brilliant sunflowers catch the morning, come back

to the studio and make something blue to hold all that

bright orange in. Be flighty and irresponsible. Alive.

Imagine the best possible outcome, said Travis.

This morning, in bed, anticipating another dull

and depressing visit with my self-absorbed

husband, I consider what that might be.

What my greedy heart wants is some indication

he sees me. Me, myself. That I exist

in his inner world as something other than

an inconvenience, or a convenience,

depending on the day and his mood.

I try to imagine what that would look like,

and I can’t. Later I arrive at Anna’s,

the rented hospital bed, the smells, the pills.

He takes my hand, breathing hard. “I had

a rough night.” More rough breathing,

impatient fiddling with the oxygen tube.

Then: “I’m ready.” I nod, through tears,

tell him it’s okay. We are silent together

for many minutes. And then he looks at me.

And says, “So, what have you been reading?”

I breathe it in, this parting gift. He’s asleep again

before I finish my answer, but there’s a chance

he heard me say something about Osho

and creativity and stillness.

I close my eyes too, and there he is, a young man,

a boy really, running, laughing, rolling in the grass.

Looking down on us worrying about his nebulizer

and his meds as if we are just so, so silly.

I’m wearing layers of pale blue,

waiting for the words to emerge from the colors.

What if it’s only an ordinary day,

as ordinary as the pale blue sky?

What if for the moment the dark is behind me

and I am simply here in the stillness

the open space?

What if this is it, the meaning of life,

this quiet pale blue morning?

What happens to my words then?

Under the dark jacket is a bright warm top.

Under the layer of doubt beats a strong steady heart.

In the next room, open space, sunlight.

In the next season, new work. Creation.