No Poems
April 14, 2008 by thisgirlremembers
So much for my big announcement that I’d write poetry every day this month.
I feel like I’ve been broken open and put back together in a new way – one that is very similar to what I was before, but different all the same. Remember The Wizard of Oz? The section that was always my very favorite part of the book when I was a kid was one that never made it into the movie – it’s the story of the land of the “china dolls,” with a princess who was so afraid of falling and breaking herself and marring her prettiness that she never did anything at all, and a clown who had been broken so many times and glued back together that his body was a maze of lines and cracks. And because of his brokenness and healing he was stronger than the princess could even imagine being. I think I’ve become that clown, just a little bit. I’ve had one big break, something that was at the same time the most painful but also the most beautiful and sacred thing I’ve ever experienced. And I don’t know what to do with that yet. I’m chewing on it constantly, but I can’t put any of it into pretty (or even not so pretty) words and post them as poems for other people to see. Maybe not ever, but at the very least not yet. But I can’t write (or hardly think) about anything else either. So for now, no poetry. Prose is all I can manage, and even that is hard.
A week ago I could still say that at thirty I still had all four of my grandparents.
My grandmother died exactly one week ago as I write this. One week ago we were losing her. In half an hour it will be one week since my grandfather asked us what time she died and we realized that none of us had been watching the clock so we weren’t sure exactly when – we just knew it had been a little while before. It’s been a week since I held her hand and kept my other hand on her shoulder as a circle of nine members of our family laid hands on her and told her that it was ok and that we loved her and then stayed with her as she left us. A week since I held her head and helped the hospice nurse dress her in a nice nightgown so she wouldn’t be taken to the funeral home in the old t-shirt she died in. A week since I sat with her in the bedroom as other family members moved in and out and waited for the people to come and take her body away, my hand on her arm keeping at least a small part of her warm for just a little longer, until I had to let go and leave the room so they could take her. A week since I watched my grandfather say goodbye to her, over and over again, every time we thought that this time was THE time, then as she was leaving, then after she died, then before the funeral home folks took her away, then as we went into the room for the viewing for the first time, and again and again as he moved toward her amidst the sea of visitors to see her just one more time, and then finally the morning of the funeral as our family said goodbye to her one last time before her casket was closed for good.
But a week ago I also watched our family grow closer and stronger than it has ever been. It’s been a week since I watched my grandfather begin to open up in a way that I’d never seen, openly showing emotion, hugging us back when we hugged him, telling stories about his childhood and life as a young man, smiling when we came in the room. This may be the first time in my life that I’ve felt that I have an actual relationship with my grandfather. It’s astounding and so, so beautiful to see. I’ve seen so many members of my family be real and genuine with one another in a way that I haven’t experienced before. Most of it I can’t figure out how to put into words, but I can say that this new closeness is a gift that my grandmother gave us. It feels good, even as it feels bad. You know?
This is new for me. It’s not new for most people, but it is for me. For now it stays inside where I can turn it over and over in my head, where I can replay it and think about what it means. For now I don’t try to make it sound nice or have a consistent rhythm or voice. It’s still too real for that. So no poetry yet.
You have created a beautiful narrative and that is equal to any poem. Death is but a beginning. I know it sounds corny, but it is true. Your grandmother will always be alive in those she has left behind and now there are new bonds to be formed. Thank you for sharing this priceless story.
I’m so sorry for your loss. I lost my first grandparent (also out of 4) a couple years ago and it was heart-wrenching. I wish there was something I could do to help. I’m glad that at least your family’s gotten closer because of it though - a silver lining. And I’ll bet your grandmother is pretty happy about that, too.
Is that a picture of your grandmother? She has a nice face. I like her eyes. My siblings and I gathered and lived together for seven weeks last summer to take care of my mom, who was in hospice. She finished complete with everyone and unafraid, still taking care of us. Awesome experience.
life is poetry,, and as difficult as it is to be party to it.. death is life.. and thus,, in its own weird way… it too is poetry… i am sorry for your loss.. allow yourself to grieve…
Reading your paragraphs again brings it all back. The poems will come in their time.
Thank you so much for your kind words, everyone. Feeling more normal today (whatever that really means). I’m starting to be able to think about other things - and be ok with being ok with that, if that makes any sense. (I still can’t stop listening to the songs my cousin recorded to play at her funeral, though - they’re looping on my laptop all day while I’m at work.) I’ll be writing again soon, I think.
And yes, that’s a photo of her, one of the earliest ones we have. One of the many beautiful parts of the days with my family following her passing was going through and sharing many, many old photos of her and of our family. She looked so much happier in so many of the photos than she ever did in her last several years - they were hard ones for her.
I hate talking about her in past tense. Damn. It just struck me all of a sudden that I’ve now started THINKING about her in past tense, and I am not ok with that yet. Oh well.
I am so very very sorry. I lost my grandma, who was very dear to me, two years ago and my father last year, so I know the pain, and it is unbearable, but it does get better. I’ll keep you in my thoughts,
Jo
ps this is a very lovely piece
my thoughts and prayers are with you. your telling here is moving - to the bone.
I’m so sorry for your loss. The part about your grandfather saying goodbye to her just broke my heart.
I think it is a blessing that you got to be there with her, and that she brought your family closer. My last grandmother passed away when I was nineteen. I didn’t get to tell her goodbye and always felt robbed of that chance.
The words will come in their own time.
You live a kind of poetry - I am sorry you lost your grandmother but I’m glad for your new-found closeness with your granddad.
One of the most difficult days in my life was the day my grandmother died. I was so close to her and although I was 40 years old, it was devastating to lose her. Three days later during her funeral I accepted the Lord as my personal Saviour. It has been over 16 years and rarely a day passes that I don’t think of her. She was the strongest and the gentlest person I have ever known. I was so fortunate to have her in my life for 40 years -and will have her memories forever. You will have the same.
Maybe instead of poetry you may want to consider prose writing. Your above post came from the heart and was very effective. If you need some prompts please check out Slice of Life Sunday (although there is no real day a writing is required). It may give you an avenue to express your inner feelings in a new way. (http://sliceoflifesunday.wordpress.com)