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Posts Tagged ‘loss’


                  with thanks to the makers of Your Attention, Please


I go to the hillside at the end of the valley
and sit beside the gray stone with his name on it.
I am in need of deep grounding.
My beloved friend comes alongside. We sit
on the ground beside the grave, frothy white 
seeds of dandelions clinging to our clothes.
We sit until the sun moves away from the valley, 
climbing toward the peaks. I do not mind being sad. 
Sad makes sense when I think of how any child 
can no longer imagine this is a world in which
they belong. This world of green aspen leaves
and alpine snow fields and delicate dandelion fluff. 
This world in which any human is made to feel 
as if they are not enough. How many? And how 
many more? I run my fingers through the tall 
cemetery grass. How green it is. My friend
and I listen to the chaos of birdsong riffling 
across the canyon. I am near destroyed
by the damn beauty of it. The tiniest drift
of cloud goes by. No, not destroyed. 
Opened. 

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

*Hey, friends, I have been going to see films at MountainFilm in Telluride this weekend, and tonight I saw such a profoundly moving, disturbing, insightful, intelligent film about the effects of social media on young people (and all of us). If you get a chance to see Your Attention, Please, it offers compelling reasons for why we might want to rethink our relationship with social media. 

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Intention

In the garden, fill a hole with water,
eventually it will drain. Fill it with trash, 
with poor soil, nothing—or weeds—
will grow. But fill the hole with topsoil, 
intentional seed—is it any wonder 
something beautiful eventually thrives? 
Consider the hollow left when a loved one 
is gone. Nothing will ever be the same as it was. 
But if I protect the hollow, allow into it, 
more feeling, more love, more honest connection, 
if I sow there whatever goodness I grieve, 
then how deep the roots might go. How true,
the sapling, its leaves so verdant, 
so heartachingly new, so unashamedly green. 

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At the Table of Loss

As many chairs
as humans.
No way to refuse 
what we are served.
We choke on 
the courses.
How is it they
nourish us?
Beneath the table, 
we hold hands.

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after “Flower in a Field” by Dario Cvencek
 
A mother is still a mother
even in an empty house, 
even when there’s not a child
hanging on her hip or leg, 
she’s still a mother even when 
the floors are clean, devoid  
of Legos and Monopoly houses. 
Even when silence 
fills the spaces where once
rang laughter, crying, singing,
even when the cake stays exactly
where she left it in the fridge, 
when her car doesn’t leave the drive
for days because no one needs 
to be taken to school or to dance. 
Even then, she’s a mother,
when the phone doesn’t ring, 
when her child can no longer
walk in the room, can’t say hello,
can’t even breathe, even then, 
even then when there is no damn way 
she can care for her child, that sad
fact does not change the fact
that she’s a mother, just as a tree 
in the field is no less tree when the saplings 
that came from its seeds are cut down, 
just as a happy memory might still 
make you happy even if it arrives
amongst tears. She is no less a mother
when the only thing that fills her arms 
is tenderness for other mothers with 
empty arms, when instead of holding
anyone, she lets herself be held. 
 

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 Late Night Flight


 
 
Expecting my daughter to come in
late, I slept lightly, attentive
to the slightest sound.
Imagine my surprise when my son,
dead four years, came into my room
and spoke soft in my ear
to let me know he was home.
I hugged him so long. Wondered
aloud why I hadn’t been expecting him.
Let him know his sister had
taken over their old room. Together,
we sorted through his old art projects,
old shirts, old shoes. When his sister
came home we hugged her, too,
and played chase, leaping over the bed,
the chairs, laughing, squealing, alive.
Soon, I was floating—zagging
through the air with wild delight—
not because I was trying to fly, more
like I was a leaf lifted by wind, soaring
with no effort of my own. I chased them
this way, through the dream to the day,
and our laughter was then and now
and somehow inside me forever.

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When Memories Come Back


 
 
I love when people share memories of you
I have forgotten. Like when your big sister
remembered the time we visited your aunt’s
new home, and you, six years old and unstoppable,
were entranced by the decorative glitter glued
to her walls, and while the rest of us were nearby
making food, you stood there in the hallway
and picked at the sparkles until there was a pile
of shine on the floor. “And she was so mad,”
remembers your sister. The memory glimmers
in me like the first stars at dusk, barely there,
but becoming more clear by the moment,
then shining and bright. Yes, that’s what it’s like when
old memories return. I get a shining sliver
of you back. Like finding some constellation
that was always there, I had just forgotten where
to look, and now it’s so present, so true,
I can use its light to navigate my nights.

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After Effects


 
 
In the dream, Craig said to me, 
you know, Rosemerry, there
are fifty-eight kinds of loss. 
He pointed me to an easel
with a large blank page and handed me
a moss green pen. Here, he said. 
Fill them in. There were two columns. 
Loss of living. Loss of the dead. 
In minutes words filled the page 
like clover reproducing in a field. 
Loss of time. Loss of breath. Loss of love.
Loss of masks. Loss of shoulds. Loss
of musts. When I woke, I could
no longer name them all. But I
felt them growing in me, feel them,
still, flowerless and powerful,
exploiting any cracks in my certainty,
breaking me down from the inside,
making me softer, softer. Softer.

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Two Radiances


 
hours ago
I lit a golden candlestick
now only honey-scented space—
 
years since you’re gone
everywhere I go,
the perfume of you—

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and all the scaffolding
that has held me up
crashes down
and I stumble
from the theater
to find myself
in my body,
heart naked as a cloud.
I crouch in the dry dirt
behind a building,
weeping,
unable to stand,
stunned again
by the truth
of loving what
must be lost.
When finally I rise,
my hat comes off.
How right
if feels in my hair,
on my face,
the wind.
 

  • after watching Sentimental Value at Telluride Film Festival

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So Alive 


 
Finn, the larkspur are nearly done blooming now,
the tall stalks are scruffy with seed pods where
the dark blue petals used to be.
Is it strange to give you the garden report?
Today is four years since you chose to leave
this world of bindweed and deep red dahlia,
this world of millipedes and green beans
dangling on their vines. The sky is thick
with smoke from a wildfire not so far away.
It was a relief when it began to rain
while I was picking snapdragons and
sunflowers, zinnias and lavender.
I didn’t mind getting drenched
while I filled five vases with flowers,
four vases for our home and one
your father and I took to your grave.
I felt so alive in the middle of the storm,
arranging the blooms in vases just so
while the water dripped from my hair, my nose.
Felt so alive as I smelled the air and spoke
to you and the flowers and sky.
Today my friend Wini told me one way
to keep life sacred is to ask the holy to come.
Please, I said as I stood in the rows.
Please, come. Is it possible the asking itself
is the bridge from the everyday to the holy?
Because I felt it. There in the rain
with my grief-bent heart. There beside
the calendula, aphids and all. Hair plastered
to my head. Tears on my face. Memory
of you writing I love you in the carrot bed.
Me making bouquets for a difficult day.
Even when it hurts, the holy.

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