Grief

I am dreaming.
I am dreaming that I'm 8 years old.
And silent.  It's winter and it's snowing,
and the whole world is muffled.  Contained.
"Don't forget!"  My mother says suddenly.
She is zipping up my snowsuit.
She insists I take a hat
and gloves.  She hands me . . .
something.  "Don't forget to wear your hat."
	    She smiles at me.
            "Don't forget to wear your gloves."
	    She opens the door.
            "Don't forget to breathe."
	    Snowflakes whirl in, blotting out everything.

"What?" I ask, but no sound comes out.

"Don't forget to leave."  She says brightly.

I try to yell, but the snowsuit has paralyzed me.

"Don't forget to grieve."
She says, softly.

 

And I am awake.  Just before the alarm.
I shower and dress in dark clothes.
It is my duty.  The wake is today.

My family is early.  We wait
to greet others as they come in.

"I haven't seen you since . . ."

I realize there is something
that I have to do.

"What beautiful flowers!  Who . . ."

Something . . . I have . . . forgotten?
A release, a good bye.  Fare well?
I had to, I was supposed to do, something.
And I can't . . . quite . . . lay my finger on it.
An ache.  A ghost itch.  A memory.
Something . . .

"Doesn't he look . . ."

Something

"Ladies and Gentlemen, may we bow our heads . . ."

Something

The room is almost empty.
I walk to the casket, kneel on the padded bench.
I am thinking, "Goodbye.  I love you.  I loved you."
But there is something . . .

 

The church is brightly obscene.  Stifling.
	There is nothing for me here.
The Monsignor speaks, justifying his faith
	against pagans and I think,
	"What would he know of pagans?" and
	"Does he know I am a pagan?"
And I'm biting my lip.  I do not like to cry
	in public.  I do not want to scream
	at this faithful man but
	I am panicking.
	In this vaulting room, I am trapped.

This old man buried the son, and now
	he buries the father.
Someday I will have to bury . . .

 

You know, they won't let you watch them
	shovel dirt on the caskets.  The bodies.

 

Standing in the mud and plastic grass and flowers,
	our part is done.
	We have to leave.

 

In the room, the women come and go.
They have brought this together
I stand by, awkward.
They are smooth in their ceremonies and duties.
I am still a child.
They make sure I have something to eat.

 

I had forgotten, left something outside,
	and my parents were going to be angry.
Because I wasn't thinking.
I didn't consider the consequences.
I wondered when he would be home
	from the hospital.
And woke up, half-remembering
	the smell of flowers in the rain.

 

My family has gone swimming
	while I finish my laundry
And I am thinking of church bells,
	rock n roll, and
	clean socks.
The wash is running, so I walk outside,
	to see the sun.
And my hand is wet, I realize, and I look down to see.
	It's covered with blood.
	I had put my arm through the glass of the door
	without noticing.

Units of time, units of mater, units of light.
I wonder what units make up reality
	as they bandaged my arm
This is my blood.
This is the hospital.

 

I had forgotten.
I had forgotten people die.
I wanted to scream my throat raw,
	stamp my feet,
	slam my fists,
Until everyone looked at me
And I could remind them that people die.
They don't go away,
	they don't pass on,
	they die.
And the only thing we can do is grieve.
Grief is the gift, the reprieve,
	the Christening given when Death was born.

 

And I remembered what I was supposed to do,
	Amid the ceremonies and rituals.
	During the pain, and loss, and remembrance.
	Beside the corpse . . .
I remembered, waking with a start, from a dream
	about flying,
I remembered to grieve.


				Kelly J. Cooper
				Copyright 1993, all rights reserved