Tag: loss

The Battle

i daily mourn

the friendships lost

in finding myself

by pulling away

when i lacked strength

to face each day

when i felt sick

with each new dawn

where love was lost

and lines were drawn

when i felt too much

in feeling neglected

when much had been taken

but never respected

i wielded a sword

and cut through the pain

with swift mighty strikes

again and again

and with each blow

i severed ties

which bound me to

a weighty life

of trying to do

what i thought was expected

of living in fear of being rejected

of balancing egos

including my own

of building a house

where all felt at home

but when i had finished

and my battle was won

where once stood an army

i now saw was none

grateful for those

who stayed strong in the fray

whose love was a shield

which i raised everyday

but now that i’ve triumphed

within and without

the death blows have filled me

with guilt

and with doubt

that some of my victims

might just have been saved

if i hadn’t been armed

with such sadness and rage

but here i must stand

in the wake of it all

in the place i have come

in the peace and the still

wondering

whether some dead might still rise

wondering

if i could – or should –

seek a reprise

worried

that if i hold out a new hand

backwards i’ll tumble

and backwards i’ll land

or if seeking new ties

after cutting the old

the old friends i seek

will prove bitter and cold

so here i will lay

in the dark before dawn

in the still of the night

in the dark of my thoughts

all weapons now stowed

for i have no more fight

i will lie in my bed

i will look for the light

trusting that time

might just show me the way

trusting myself to have faith everyday

that the battle hard fought

had its reason and marrow

that the pain and the death

helped me reach for tomorrow

Dad

The doctor’s last count was seven.

Each stroke leaving in its wake

a little less Dad.

Less motivation.

Less vision.

Less presence.

Then he lost his license.

So Dad just sat.

Eventually losing sight

of all that made him tick.

Gave him purpose.

He was good at.

I watched the frustration

when things weren’t clicking

in his once playful eyes,

in his quick and clever mind,

and quietly mourned

the lengthening shadow

that would smother such strong light;

turning weaknesses upon himself,

and others.

The shadow strengthened,

as the once powerful figure

could no longer focus.

Spent the days crying.

The nights wandering.

His underpants,

soiling.

Conversations were now repetitions,

driven by a series of questions

he’d ask again and again

and again.

Always about family,

living and dead.

No steering away

from this endless thread.

But it’s all that remained

as he struggled for thoughts.

For words.

For himself.

The bygone body, swaggering and bold,

began to weaken,

and wither,

and fold

from all those years of sitting.

Doing hours and hours of nothing.

While cherished faces,

and times and places,

steadily stepped into the dark.

Rare became the instants

during my brief, long-distance visits,

when I saw that certain twinkle in his eyes.

When he was pleased,

about to be silly –

or incredibly Dad.

But then

alas

it would pass

and entered this man, instead.

The only thing constant

was his wheezy, cartoon laughter

which he easily summoned

to the great relief of everyone

hovering uncomfortably in his small, sad room

scattered with pictures of loved ones –

now mostly strangers.

Rarest was hearing the voice of his past,

which sang in my ear

when he used my pet name.

Summoned forth in fugitive instants.

Clear and compelling.

Making me unexpectedly ache,

and anxious

to hear Dad speak again.

But Dad never did.

Yet in that flash,

in his strong, familiar voice,

he was my beacon,

my banker

my mentor,

my tormentor,

My father.

And everything felt right.

Then it didn’t.

And I cursed myself

for not plucking from the ether

that all-too-brief moment

to stuff deep within my pockets.

and help me remember

his long and strong hugs

of immeasurable comfort.

His powerful presence.

His stubborn dreaming.

His cocky, foolish, bridge-burning scheming.

The maestro of his successes

and Master of his failures.

But grateful for the moments

we spoke about nothing

and I apologized for everything.

Though he wouldn’t remember anything.

But love is in the giving.

In the times he heard,

I love you.

So, I told him different stories

about faraway lives,

and in between the questions

and his uncontrolled emotions,

I‘d try to fill the ether

with soon forgotten memories.

With love and laughter.

And strong hugs

of immeasurable comfort.