Tonight it’s his willowy body I miss,
the way it fit so easily into my arms,
the way he’d find me on the couch
and slip in beside me and loan me
for a time the full weight of his loneliness.
I miss how sometimes we’d say nothing
and let the quiet crests of our breath
be the only thing that need be said.
I miss how sometimes we’d talk for hours,
our thoughts unspooling like ink-dark yarn.
I miss nuzzling my face in his hair.
I miss being with him everywhere—
in the kitchen, in the car, in the yard,
on a plane, in town, on the pond,
in the store, by his desk. But most of all,
tonight, I miss him in my arms,
here in my too empty arms,
this place where so many years I held him,
this place where the memory of his beauty
still leans full weight against my chest.
Posts Tagged ‘missing’
Grateful for Those Years
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, holding, missing, son, touch on August 4, 2022| 13 Comments »
One Attempt
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, language, loss, missing, sky on July 3, 2022| 4 Comments »
like trying to contain the sky
in the word blue—
saying I miss you
May 4, 2022
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, missing, ordinary on May 4, 2022| 14 Comments »
It wasn’t that anything special happened today.
No holiday. No giant rainbow. No astonishment
of bloom. Though in years past we would have said,
May the Fourth be with you.
It wasn’t that I made an extraordinary meal,
though you did love the thin-sliced roasted potatoes
I made tonight, and they did turn out good,
slightly bubbled and browned.
It wasn’t that there was a bobcat on the porch.
And the morels aren’t out just yet.
And Mother’s Day is not until this weekend.
But I missed you. I missed you not because it was
the first May 4 since you were gone, I missed you
simply because you are gone. Sometimes,
getting through any ordinary day
is like trying to play Scrabble alone.
It’s like singing a lullaby to an empty bed.
It’s like not making your lunch.
It’s like not worrying how you’re doing.
It’s like lighting a candle and letting it burn to the end.
Missing My Father
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, death, father, legacy, missing on November 26, 2021| 6 Comments »
When you miss him, look inside.
—Deb Stevens, private correspondence
Today when I miss my father,
I hear him in my voice when I say,
You’ll go broke saving money.
I feel his tenderness in the way
I hold my own daughter’s hand.
His laugh blooms inside my laugh
when I giggle hee hee hee.
Here he is, ever inside me.
Returning home from his death,
I feel transformed,
or is it I feel more me—
the me he helped to shape
with his life, the me
he is fashioning with his death,
the me I’m still learning how to be.
A Vanilla Honey Scent
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged missing, poem, poetry, sweet clover on April 25, 2018| Leave a Comment »
scent of sweet clover—
wishing I could send it to you
send you, too,
this woman
alone in a field
surrounded
by sweet clover,
her head tipping back
in ecstasy
where the cup your hand
could be.
One Thanksgiving
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged family, missing, poem, poetry, thanksgiving on November 25, 2017| 2 Comments »
One Other Scene from Summer Camp
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dinner, flower, missing, mother, parent, poem, poetry on July 26, 2017| 2 Comments »
For My Sister Across the Ocean
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged missing, ocean, poem, poetry, sister on November 1, 2015| 4 Comments »
In the empty kitchen I read
your letter out loud,
try to speak in your tones
as if I might trick my ears,
but there are too many waves
in my voice, I can hardly keep my head
above the water, they are deep
the tides between here and there.
Christmas and my Mother
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, daughter, love, missing, mother, poem, poetry on December 24, 2013| 1 Comment »
unable to form
the sweet dough in my hands
without hearing the echo
of her hymn as she sings
a thousand miles away
Using the Last Bit of Red Onion Left by Rachel
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cooking, friendship, missing, nostalgia, onion, poem, poetry on July 3, 2012| 6 Comments »
Using the Last Bit of Red Onion Left by Rachel
Lost for weeks in the corner of the crisper drawer,
it appears just in time to save the carrot soup.
One large hunk of red onion, partially used, still good.
I get nostalgic, remembering how Rachel, gone for three weeks,
served it with eggs, and though I didn’t eat them
I remember how delicious the kitchen smelled then.
It is her hand that chose it, her hand that sliced the rings.
I laugh at my own nostalgia. But I miss her, the all of her,
the giggling on the couch with her, the singing in the car,
cayenne and hot chocolate late night, poems, wine.
And slicing the onion, thinking about how Rachel she is,
it is right somehow that I should start to cry.