Caregiver, too

I don’t have a #metoo story, other than that creepy great uncle who showed me how to play pool. But when my fellow caregivers speak, I am reminded.

Death strips bare

They passed as flesh no longer served. But they continue the conversation you both started when you were born to one another.
Hold yourself. Hold.
There is this whole lifetime

That you shared.

Spirits, having flown

“Why did you love someone who did not love you the way you deserved?” Because he deserved to be loved.

Soul mirror

Is grief a soulmate? Should we let it show us to ourselves, and allow it to find its way?

I think it was a Gibson

I am getting lost in the memories of those who have gone before me. Who have been living stories. Death has me thinking about them, about what has shaped me and what I have let go.

Line up

Those same sisters once stood around their mother’s arborite kitchen table making strudel together. I sat underneath, watching their comfortable shoes move behind the dough that hung over the table’s edge. “More raisins, Elsie.” “I think it’s enough, Hedwig.”

Death, continued

I have experienced death – first hand – twice now. I am a child compared to some. A virgin. Innocent. When I think of the world around me and it’s wars and tragedies, what do I know of death? Except that I know. I know my apples amongst the oranges.

Death

Now it is time to speak for me, of me. And I have something to say about death.

Why . . .

This bed in which I sleep

stand beside

lamp upon

Ours now mine.

And to my Own Self

For those of us who grieve you, what is left in our hands might be surprising or uncomfortable. New. But these stories belong to us, and are not left by you.