A calling comes to all of us
beyond the need to see
differences we’ve long ignored
the way a child ignores noodles
in a bowl when the child wants
pizza insead. A commonality
exists in every single being
no matter our colors, beliefs,
or culture that binds us all.
Times exist when we all turn
red from what we feel inside
when told our loved one
dies. The way in which some
of us express varies with the
beat in our chest, but
eventually all of us know
loss that gets to our soul.
Some of us push away
the pain of our loss or
losses deep within the way
some women lay on the bed
to button their jeans. We act
as if there is nothing more
for us to do than return to
work or walk through our
neighborhood.
Some of us hope no one
says our child’s, mother’s
father’s, brother’s, sister’s,
grandma’s, grandpa’s, aunt’s,
uncle’s, or friend’s name,
and we put away their
treasures like the
porcelain cocker spaniel
they kept next to a vase
with a necklace around
its neck, and in which
new sunflowers were placed
every Saturday.
Some of us exercise grief
on a morning walk with
the dog in the yard, and
we don’t care who sees
when we drop to the
ground and wail like
some mothers who’ve
tried for years, learn
their pregnant, and then
they’re told by the
doctor, “There’s no
longer a
heartbeat.”
Some of us find art
is all that’s left when
logic fails. Some paint
pictures of sunflowers
in a vase with a necklace
around its neck on
a Saturday. Some run
for five miles or more
with a focus on steps,
our heartbeat, and
record our results.
Some of us have seen
death of those we
never know. We wonder
why we had to see what
we cannot unsee, and
why the nightmares
come at night. We’re
scared to go to sleep,
and see the sights we
can never unsee.
Some of us know
funerals and death
more than we ever
know the lace on
wedding veils. We
witness more than
we wish to see by the
age of fifteen, twenty-
-nine, thirty-five,
forty, fifty-six, or
ninety-nine.
In society, we’re sometimes scared
to discuss, and want to move on
when others deal with their grief
the way a new card dealer shuffles
cards again and again. We live on
islands thinking no one understands
when in reality, we have this
commonality: Loss comes to each
of us in its time, and gives us no
choice in who and what it takes.
In mid-winter, some of us take
to our grief with a tractor and
its accessories to dig the roots
and stumps out of the ground
where we’ll replant flowers to
watch on a Saturday in May.
Photos and poem by Rebecca T. Dickinson. All work copyrighted 2021 by R.T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 