April is the month of spring renewal and poetry, a mix of greens/reds/yellows/purples, of budding limbs and of word play. And now also of a sword that strikes suddenly, swirling death into the pretty mixture. Everywhere we turn grief rises up to greet us—suicide bombings in Belgium and Africa, the protagonist of a post-apocalyptic series sacrificed, movie or rock stars like Alan Rickman and David Bowie falling, a supreme court seat emptied in an election year, and on and on it goes.
The one-year marker of your death approaches, and I am still numb, hurting. Sad. Tears still fall so often.
Soon it will be…
365 days since a dam broke inside from too much to mourn in too little time (Grandpa, then Dad, then you).
365 days since my body’s visceral keening. All of the pain flowing up and out of my throat, leaving me voiceless, wordless. And now, almost a year later, I am starting this month of April with no voice, literally, from a cold virus.
365 days with no words. Journal pages blank. Empty.
For a year, I’ve written letters to you but nothing else. No diary entries, no stories, no essays, no poems.
Empty pages, empty landscape, empty love tank.
Uncle David, I still miss you. I wonder how I will endure this, how the heavy grief that has taken up residence in my body will ever leave.
There are no words.
During this month of spring and poetry, I can only think of elegies I’ve read, so many poems of sorrow, a human experience we all know. These woeful songs of lament and grief leaving me voiceless, wordless.
I am still not ready
to say goodbye.