Thursday August 7 \u00a0– \u00a0Grieving<\/p>\n
Making oatmeal and tea this morning I noticed more sadness in me than usual. \u00a0 \u00a0Several good friends have lost someone too young to lose; \u00a0others have been orphaned by keeping vigil with an older generation. Other wounds are lodged in the flesh of soul friends; \u00a0require imagination to notice and courage to tell those stories and to listen to the telling.<\/p>\n
“Story telling and story listening are the works of love alive in the press of the day\u2019s labors\u201d: \u00a0the words seemed to come with the the oatmeal and the tea, like raisins. \u00a0For you too I hope.<\/p>\n
Have a good day.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
john sj<\/p>\n
Today\u2019s Post<\/b><\/p>\n
My niece, Terri Breeden, writes flint-hard poems sometimes. \u00a0In \u201cThe Living\u201d she grieves the loss of her grandmother who died at 102 and stretches to include her young son in the grieving.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/b>The Living<\/b><\/tt><\/p>\n
It's strange the things people say
\n<\/tt>after a death, crooked attempts
\n<\/tt>to comfort. Things like, \"Oh,<\/tt><\/p>\n
well she was old. She had a long life.\"
\n<\/tt>or \"She was ready to go.\u201d One woman
\n<\/tt>even said, her hand resting on my shoulder<\/tt><\/p>\n
\u201cHer death was easy; that
\n<\/tt>should make you happy.\"
\n<\/tt>Happy. Easy. Words I never<\/tt><\/p>\n
put together with death, words I still
\n<\/tt>can\u2019t quite get my arms around
\n<\/tt>no matter my wingspan.<\/tt><\/p>\n
And I think, Oh, this stumbling
\n<\/tt>over language as if it were new,
\n<\/tt>despite a familiarity with time,<\/tt><\/p>\n
the exhaustion and experience
\n<\/tt>of years, despite consideration of death,
\n<\/tt>having greeted that recognizable face before.<\/tt><\/p>\n
It is easy to forget, tangled
\n<\/tt>in words of comfort,
\n<\/tt>that the dead<\/tt><\/p>\n
are dead; they do not feel
\n<\/tt>the pain of departing,
\n<\/tt>do not need to be consoled.<\/tt><\/p>\n
It is those who are left
\n<\/tt>who know the burden of sad and hard,
\n<\/tt>bowed low beneath the weight of loss.<\/tt><\/p>\n
My son will never know her. He will never
\n<\/tt>understand why when he glares, shoulders
\n<\/tt>angled back and jaw thrust out<\/tt><\/p>\n
stubborn like her, belligerent and
\n<\/tt>ready for a fight, I, a fighter too,
\n<\/tt>can only cry and hold him close.<\/tt><\/p>\n
Terri Breeden<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Thursday August 7 \u00a0– \u00a0Grieving Making oatmeal and tea this morning I noticed more sadness in me than usual. \u00a0 \u00a0Several good friends have lost someone too young to lose; \u00a0others have been orphaned by keeping vigil with an older … Continue reading