This is not it… In grief, and shock- the color of fall

This is not it… In grief, and shock- the color of fall


I hesitate to start… to start talking, start writing… to try to express myself

But it splashes up… like a wave hitting rocks

before entropy sets in and drags me down… over the edge

And I remind myself that grief is the price I pay for love. 

And there is a sacredness in tears. 

This is the only truth that the pain in my chest speaks of- that I want my son back.
And before you even think to give me a word of advice… unless you can do this for me and bring him back…

Give me your silence

It isn’t that I want you to leave. But your support… is right here… not in words but in your presence.

Everything else is just noise. 

I want to understand. I want you to understand. And so I write this again… 

So I try to put the passion into words… with the right rhythm and sound- but it isn’t quite right. 

And I start and stop and start

And erase everything and start over.

Rescind that last rhythm and read it aloud to the cat… who pitches his ears back and turns away. 

Because there was something  earlier today that I knew I had to put down…

And now it is something else. 

In the morning I read the account of the father of PhD candidate from La Jolla

Who lost his son to suicide.

And he quit his for profit job to start a non profit.

And then I didn’t want to go to work.

And I am thinking, how do people do this?

I was thinking that I could take what I write and shape it into a monologue.

I was thinking that I could quit my job and finish the degree Ethan started

And come back as a music teacher. But that was not it…

I was feeling tired and feeling restless

And listening to the blood behind my ears

And walk out from behind the dark and the numbness… but this isn’t it, either.

And I think about despair. About bereavement. About confusion. 

Sublime and ineffable inky sucky blackness…

So what I do, is what I have to do.
I drive to work because I have to drive to work

And I plod through the day.

Thinking at one moment that this isn’t too bad

And I love the job and love the kids

And in the next moment I’m thinking that I want to be somewhere… anywhere else…

And I take the stupid flack that high school kids dish out… and one kid really pisses me off…

And inside I tell him don’t to fuck with me…

And outside I stare at him and ask him to please sit down.

And I am thinking, why the fuck are you alive… and my son, dead.

Because if rising from my chair in the corner and beating this punk to death with my bare hands had the slightest chance of bringing my son back, I would do it in a heartbeat. 

And maybe I shouldn’t be here. 

I was thinking of a road trip. 

Of playing in the mud. And swimming in the deep deep blue.

Of motion and change and getting the hell away.

And coming back to that spot on the couch… that is too familiar.

I was thinking of guilt and dissipation and this thing that feels like fear and falling.

Like mud caked on heavy boots

And the painful void in my chest where questions echo with a dull thud. 

And I think about going on the road and doing one more motivational seminar.

And I reach out to the infinite in a silent prayer… that begins with a sigh and ends with my eyes closed…

Raising to full height and gathering the wallet and keys and the papers to begin the day…

A sack lunch and cell phone and today I need a jacket.

So much of it is going through the motions… and walking through some kind of routine… saying words that don’t really mean anything. Writing, Composing. Erasing. Looking for it and not getting it right again. Do it again. Do it again. This is not it. 
And even though if feels futile… I know that it is moving forward.

Whatever I do…

Whatever I write…

Spring has gone to Summer. Summer has yielded to Autum. And the leaves on the oak tree turn and fall.

Winter is only a breath away. 


4 thoughts on “This is not it… In grief, and shock- the color of fall

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