No one tells you about the bit after
about the quiet bit.
The silence
Waiting to pounce when all the other grievers have left,
paid their dues:
Kindness
Sadness
Absence.
And you thought you were wishing for this bit.
Space.
Away from being humble about the depths of your sadness.
Like
‘Oh, this? It’s nothing.’
Or welcoming condolence
As if it were a fruit basket or a fancy bag of nuts or a jar of marmalade
Or some other kind but insincere gift that says
I don’t know
I don’t know
What to do.
Well
I don’t either.
But still.
you thought you were wishing for this bit. Space.
from
putting a face on it
And pretending
that the face
somehow represents strength.
And that face,
the face that you wear
has become your only job now.
There’s who you were before
And who you are now.
And you’re desperately trying to get the two to marry up
To pretend that you’re the same person.
But you can’t.
And you’ve been vacant for weeks
But if you could just
find a way to slide surreptitiously back into your old frame
And hide behind that face
as if nothing’s changed.
Just keep it together
until they’ve gone.
But it turns out
you didn’t want them to.
Because now all that remains
is space
and
loud
or faint
echo’s
of memories
of joy.
Spiked with bitter grief.
And you don’t know what to do with that now.
So all that remains
Is space
s
t
r
e
t
c
h
i
n
g
out
in front of you
No one tells you about that bit.
