My father died on this date in 1985. This is not news. I’ve mentioned it before, even last year on this day I think.
Don’t worry, this is not a poem, just some scribbles….hopefully I won’t be removing it soon.
8/6/12 anniversary
wanted to be quiet today
counting something on my fingers
the hollow wind that rings
along a cement corridor
when I was looking for the word wind
I lost track of another word
it was on the tip of my mind
pre-frontal cortex
gray matter
does gray matter?
serving up the need
for shutting down
my mother is unraveling
the small bones
27 per hand
I still want to be preserved in salt
camphor to mask my scent
I like this “not really a poem”.
Hooray! I’m so glad you like it. Maybe I should be all about “not poems.” But since not all of them are very accomplished pieces, they probably already are not poems. Funny.
“my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping
but I shall go on living.”
– Pablo Neruda
beautiful, thanks.
I’m sorry you lost your dad so early.
Thanks, Katharine. It’s a long haul, the grief. I thought I was done. This year has been a doozy for it rearing its ugly, but necessary, head.
Sometimes I forget that there was a hole in my life from an early age. I think, I wasn’t so young. But it shaped and formed me, of course.
I read the article from “The Sun” by Cheryl Strayed. That may have been the best piece of writing about losing a parent that I’ve ever read. Mostly people don’t write about it really.
THANKS again! Katherine