Death's absoluteness blindsided me. You can't plead for just one more phone call or visit. You can't ask a departed person to send you an occasional text message saying they're doing fine in that foreign country called the afterlife. Whatever language they speak there is mostly incomprehensible to me. Grief is in the silence.
To process my karmic batch of exits, I write, of course. Today my stepmother's body is being cremated. It's a hard fact. I awoke into it not happy. But the impenetrable is what writers write to penetrate. We try to write our way behind the curtain, even when that's impossible.
Death Is Not Subjective
You can’t negotiate it, finesse, or spin
it visceral skull-hardness
into soft-sweet resonance. You can’t flex it.
When I touched her folded, white hands,
I felt permanence. And impermanence
seared me in its icicle grip. I forgot to eat
all the rest of that day,
but then I followed it with a binge,
because while I am still alive
I need to learn the lessons of being
by hand, tongue, skin, and muscle.
By illness and overeating,
exercise, and petting my dog’s
silky strands. Chill fog is the right element
today, this day of a disembodiment,
winter tucking deeply in, life whirling
in sharp flakes inward,
behind a white curtain.
The road ahead
unclear, yet I travel
deep into the till then unknown.
I need to cherish even fatigue,
and remember what my brother told me
on his last day: to hug harder.
A hug is not subjective.