a poet

Have you ever read Stephen Dobyns?

This is his poem, grief.

Trying to remember you
is like carrying water
in my hands a long distance
across sand. Somewhere people are waiting.
They have drunk nothing for days.

Your name was the food I lived on;
now my mouth is full of dirt and ash.
To say your name was to be surrounded
by feathers and silk; now, reaching out,
I touch glass and barbed wire.
Your name was the thread connecting my life;
now I am fragments on a tailor’s floor.

I was dancing when I
learned of your death; may
my feet be severed from my body.

the not-birthday

Life begins with such promise.

As parents, we look at our new-born babies, and we see the future.
A million possibilities stretch out in front of us, like a Yellow Brick Road that leads on through all the years that this child will have, signposted with goals and landmarks.

We anticipate the Firsts. First smile, first tooth, first steps, first words, first birthday, first day of school.
We dream of sports carnival ribbons, and lumpy clay Mothers' Day presents, and paddle-pop stick stars for the Christmas tree.

We tell ourselves to deal gently with grazed knees and bruised egos and broken hearts. We will walk beside them to protect our fragile children from the monsters of this world until they're strong enough to protect themselves.

Their birthdays appear along the Road as milestones, marked with balloons and excitement, an achievement and a celebration. Each one is a triumph. "You Have Made It This Far! Keep Going!"

The road, for my little boy, is empty. There are no milestones. There are no crowds to cheer him on. There are not even any footprints to show me where he's been. There are 15 years of nothingness behind us, and many more in front.

The promise of What Might Have Been still hurts my heart.

no hearts and flowers

So.

Valentines' Day.

Normally, this is a day I love, and I like to spoil my man and be spoiled in turn.

But today, it's just another day for me, because my husband is away (again). It doesn't matter, really, because we celebrate our marriage every day and a special day is like sprinkles on the icing on the cake.

But today is not 'just another day' for some pretty amazing women whose blogs I've been reading this year. Women who've lost their soulmates and are having to learn to live life without their other half.

How do they do that? how do they get out of bed every day and face life, knowing how cruel it can be? How do they learn to live again?

I often think of these two lines from Sleepless In Seattle.
"Well, I'm gonna get out of bed every morning... breathe in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won't have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breathe in and out... and, then after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while."
"Well, it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, they meant we were supposed to be together... and I knew it. I knew it the very first time I touched her. It was like coming home... only to no home I'd ever known... I was just taking her hand to help her out of a car and I knew. It was like... magic."

There's nothing you can say to someone who's lost love like that. Nothing in all this world to ease the pain or help them forget.
And on a day like today, when others are celebrating their two-ness, I offer you women my love, my thoughts, my prayers.
It's not enough.
It's all I have.