further defiance

Call it funny but after that “first poem” I had inspiration for a second. I wrote this second one pretty fast, a day after we took a hike. During the hike as we took a break to take in the views I could feel the aches in my old bones, and felt very alive indeed. Yet, though I had all parts of me with me, I knew I was no longer me. I submitted the poem to Angie, and she told me it would be published February 20, but I forgot, until just now. I am so glad that Angie started Still Life 365 and maintains it, with lots of opportunities for community participation. She truly is amazing, and I have been blown away by these expressions of grief, all different but ultimately beautiful because all are heartfelt.

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packing up

On Saturday we drove up to the cabin together. This time it was all about work. We had a list: unpack sun-room, unpack closets in bedroom, meet with painter to look at bedroom, find guy to clean up yard.

And we did all but the last, as the weather was, in R’s words, “just shit outside.” When we arrived there were remnant snow on the ground and the girls got SO excited. The following morning when we got up it was snowing. And raining at the same time.

It’s horrible when the weather cannot decide what it wants to do. Still, the girls managed to play outside and even made miniature snowmen. And for me, I could focus on doing stuff inside, without feeling cheated that I did not get to spend some time outside taking in the fresh air and the sights.

The packing up went pretty smoothly. Even with memories prying its way into my brain all the time. But time was limited and though there was the urge for a big cry,  I did not stop but instead corked up all the tears. For another time, perhaps. I could not help remembering how I had cleaned every inch of the cabin when we first bought it. How we discovered the little gems of verdant beauty around us. How the girls found wild blackberries. How we used to go to movie nights at the firehouse. And also the pancake breakfasts. How we could not bear to go home after a weekend at the cabin. All those fun times we had with friends up there. The dark, black skies that exploded with stars at night. The howls. The elks’ bugles. The pesky squirrels. The very entertaining acorn woodpeckers. The bossy stellar jays. The  amazing hummingbirds.

I recalled how R carefully cleaned the cabin when I felt the contractions. And how we hid away at our cabin after Ferdinand died. And how each visit to the cabin became increasingly difficult.

And now, we are cleaning things out. There is a certain gladness, now that the decision is made. And there is also boundless sadness, for what had transpired. I imagined another family like ours would buy the cabin, with children who beg to be outside searching for bugs of all sorts, clamoring to be dipping their toes in the cold waters of the creek. And I hope their days will be overflowing with nothing with happiness. May they never experience the shock and sorrow we did, muddling up happy memories of the cabin.

I realized we’ll never out-travel grief, as MacCracken had said. I realized we can never pack up that pain and ship it off to a faraway land. Because no matter what, that grief, sadness and pain is forever tied to love, and you cannot sever ties with love.

This picture I took of Lyra, who finally agreed to settle down for a (brief) nap, and we set her by the warm fire, where her sisters’ wet mittens were set to dry. She needs to graduate out of her infant car-seat already. Time flies. But some things never change.

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