And Now She is Gone

Tag: poetry

  • It Lives With Me

    It Lives With Me

    I live with loneliness.

    It’s a loneliness that crawls over me. It gets into my head and makes me doubt whether I am good enough.

    It attaches itself to my most personal parts and tempts me in ways that make me feel ashamed.

    It follows me like a bastard shadow, and trips me up as it kicks my feet.

    I try to navigate my way through, but it is an endless labyrinth of stone with sharp corners and walls covered in rotting ivy.

    Sometimes I can hear it. It’s a low static thumping that keeps me awake at night and clouds my mind during the day. It whispers words that punch deep and bruise me dark.

    I don’t know if it will ever leave, I don’t if I will ever get used to it.

    So, I live with loneliness.

  • First to Last

    First to Last

    On the first night they met, their worlds collided, and he was excited and uncertain of their future.

    On the first night they slept together, he lay in bed after, watching her sleep and he felt a peace wash over him

    On the first night in the house, he truly felt at home for the first time.

    On the first night they knew of cancer, he lay in bed watching her sleep and he was terrified and uncertain of their future.

    On the first night in a hospital, he sat in the chair bedside, and he wished he could be as brave as her.

    On the first night he had to call paramedics for help, he wondered if he was doing enough.

    On the first night he accepted her fate, she held his hand, looking into his heart, and said to him.

    “You have more story to tell”

    On the last night, he lay in a bed suddenly too big, and he cried, terrified and uncertain of his future

  • Too many empty rooms

    Too many empty rooms

    Something has changed and he can’t understand it.

    The silence is new. It is a silence he has never heard before. It is loud, and intense as it rings in his ears.

    He tries to fight it by opening the windows to let the world in, but even the world can’t penetrate the walls.

    Occasionally he hears her laughter, but even that is only a whisper that floats just out of his reach.

    Each step he takes on the stairs is loud and violent, and they stretch and twist making the climb more uncertain.

    The doors are cold to his touch, a block of ice behind each one.

    He tries to adapt. He tries to get used to it. But understanding evades him.

     And then he sees it. It stares him in the face and mocks his recognition.

    All the rooms are empty.

  • Its a Mess

    Its a Mess

    He stands in the doorway looking over the mess. It’s her mess. Not as in she is responsible for it, but it is her stuff.
    In one corner he stares at a pile of pens. It is a hulking mass of writing tools including highlighters, dry erase markers, crayons and even a few pencils. He sees one with “Akeela and the Bee” stamped across it and he thinks about when they saw the movie. It was one of those special pre-screenings where they asked your opinion after the show. When they were done the young lady gave her the pencil and she loved it.
    He looks over the many notebooks and folders she collected over their 20 years together. She always asked him to stop off at many an office supply store, “Let’s see if there are any new releases” she would say as they entered. He would say the same thing whenever he entered a record store, and she would mimic his delivery perfectly every time. When the back-to-school sales started she would get excited, Saturday would become a loot day for her. Some days she would buy nothing; on other days she should fill the cart. He would watch her in those moments. She would meticulously examine each notebook, taking in the aroma of fresh paper and cardboard. As she ran her fingers along the binding, she would smile at him and relay the many ways she will use the notebook. He knew that most of them would go unused, but it didn’t matter to him. This was as close to a religious experience she would get so he let her have it.
    Now he sees another stack of notebooks. These are worn and used, and they scare him. He can see short phrases or solitary words written across the front to remind her of what is in them. Sometimes, during her down time, she would just write. Even in the worst parts of her treatment she would write. He would watch her writing in that chair, an IV pumping poison into her. She did not write for any purpose on those days. She wrote to forget why she was there. She wrote just to write. These scare him because he knows what they will bring. Emotion. Those are her words in there, her thoughts and he cannot handle those yet. Someday. Not yet.
    He sees a jar filled with small slips of paper. This was a gift for her. Each slip of paper has compliments and short phrases of endearment. “This is for those day you are feeling beaten and alone.” He says as he gives it to her. He never asked her if she read any of the slips. Now he decides to take a look and discover not only had she looked at them, but she also wrote her own notes on them. This one says, “never let him go” on the other side of “You are beautiful” and this one has “how lucky I am” on the back of a slip with “Kiss me, just because” on it. He puts the lid back and sets it down. He will keep this as well.
    Looking at the room one might think it is a mess. He sees it differently. Each of the pens she left behind brought her some happiness. Every notebook was a comfortable place for her to escape. He knows that he should get rid of this stuff, but it is hard to do when each one comes with emotion. He can still smell her in each notebook and feel her when he grips one of her pens. He cannot throw this stuff away, not now.
    So, every day he stands in the doorway looking at her mess and thinking about her.

  • A new kind of fear

    A new kind of fear

    




    This is a different kind of fear.

    Not like the fear I felt the night I asked her to marry me.

    Not like the fear I felt when we bought our first house.

    Not like the fear I felt when she looked at me and said “I have cancer.”

    Not like the fear I felt when she told me she wanted hospice.

    This is a different kind of fear.

    This kind sticks to me, like sap from a tree.

    This kind of fear stings my eyes like the sweat of a hot summer day.

    And I have to face it alone. 

    It’s that kind of fear.