Two years now.
My mom died early in the morning of October 1st, 2008.
I can't decide whether that's longer than it feels, or shorter.
I've had some thoughts tumbling around in my head about how I, and people in general, handle pain and grief. It ended up as sort of a poetic-looking pile of prose. I have no idea whether this is any good, but it's been on my mind regardless. (It's also not completely representative of how I'm handling things, but it's not terribly inaccurate either.)
Some people weave banners from their pain, painting courageous words upon it, holding it aloft to rally their comrades. But I have neither courageous words nor a cause that could benefit from my pain.
Some people forge their pain into swords, lashing out at others with a cruel and jagged edge. But I know such swords have no hilt, and the blade cuts wielder and victim alike.
Some people create badges of their pain, pinning them to their chests for all to see. But I take no pride in my pain, and I will not let it define me.
Some people hew their pain into blocks, building fortresses around them, barring the gates and drawing up the bridges. But I am neither hermit nor prisoner, and I refuse to lock myself away.
Some people knit blankets of their pain, hoping to transform it into comfort and wrap themselves in its warmth. But my pain is too cold to warm me, and wrapping it around myself is less comforting than suffocating.
Some people grind their pain into powder, snorting or smoking or shooting it up, grasping for release or euphoria or oblivion. But I have seen pain junkies, and I fear their addiction and loss of control.
Some people make a meal of their pain, trying to sustain themselves with it, or at least consume it and digest it all. But my pain is bitter to the tongue and heavy in the stomach, and it is not reduced by any number of bites taken from it.
So I, not knowing what to make of my pain, put it into a box, locked and hidden. I take it out and contemplate it on occasion, as a carver might regard a fresh block of wood.
Someday, I may craft my pain into some new form, beautiful to behold or useful to employ.
Until then, it waits for me.
(It occurs to me that this would look more "poemy" if I sprinkled some extra line-breaks throughout it and dropped some punctuation. Wonder what that says about the general perceptions of poetry I've been exposed to.)
I can't decide whether that's longer than it feels, or shorter.
I've had some thoughts tumbling around in my head about how I, and people in general, handle pain and grief. It ended up as sort of a poetic-looking pile of prose. I have no idea whether this is any good, but it's been on my mind regardless. (It's also not completely representative of how I'm handling things, but it's not terribly inaccurate either.)
Some people weave banners from their pain, painting courageous words upon it, holding it aloft to rally their comrades. But I have neither courageous words nor a cause that could benefit from my pain.
Some people forge their pain into swords, lashing out at others with a cruel and jagged edge. But I know such swords have no hilt, and the blade cuts wielder and victim alike.
Some people create badges of their pain, pinning them to their chests for all to see. But I take no pride in my pain, and I will not let it define me.
Some people hew their pain into blocks, building fortresses around them, barring the gates and drawing up the bridges. But I am neither hermit nor prisoner, and I refuse to lock myself away.
Some people knit blankets of their pain, hoping to transform it into comfort and wrap themselves in its warmth. But my pain is too cold to warm me, and wrapping it around myself is less comforting than suffocating.
Some people grind their pain into powder, snorting or smoking or shooting it up, grasping for release or euphoria or oblivion. But I have seen pain junkies, and I fear their addiction and loss of control.
Some people make a meal of their pain, trying to sustain themselves with it, or at least consume it and digest it all. But my pain is bitter to the tongue and heavy in the stomach, and it is not reduced by any number of bites taken from it.
So I, not knowing what to make of my pain, put it into a box, locked and hidden. I take it out and contemplate it on occasion, as a carver might regard a fresh block of wood.
Someday, I may craft my pain into some new form, beautiful to behold or useful to employ.
Until then, it waits for me.
(It occurs to me that this would look more "poemy" if I sprinkled some extra line-breaks throughout it and dropped some punctuation. Wonder what that says about the general perceptions of poetry I've been exposed to.)