Every year, I submit writing to a writing contest held by Salt Lake Community College. Every year, I am a non-winner…that sounds better than loser, I guess. Here is this year's submission. It is all about grief. Enjoy!😉 (excuse the bad formatting on the hands poem..if you’d like to read this via google docs, leave your email in the comments)
Thoughts On Dementia
It’s almost as if you have already died
What would the funeral have been like? (NO, let’s not think about that now!)
Flashbacks of memories come like phantom smells,
You’re like a ghost yet still fully alive.
It’s like you've died,
But you're still on the planet.
I guess the truth either way:
Missing you just sucks.
My hands Her Hands(Mom)
Numb and needles Keyboards and calculators
Wrenches and grease Around a mug of Blue Moon
Basketballs and baseballs In a fist while dancing
Fishing poles Snapping along with music
Rocking children to sleep Hugging her children
Holding husband’s hand Holding newest grandchild
Knit is prayer Moving knitting needles
Gripping pens Driving to the next adventure
Tired from work Tired from work
Full of duty and honor Full of duty and honor
Most of the time All the time
Now search for peace. Now rest in peace.
Deafening Death
No death is kind
Grief is intangible and painful all at once.
I knew nothing of sorrow before mom’s death:
Heavy, thick, black.
Silent like the end of the day;
Silent like the morning when no one is awake.
Yet deafening:
Stealing air from my lungs.
Stealing words from my tongue.
Stealing sound from my ears.
Deaf.
Silent.
Empty.
Empty But Full
Am I filling this emptiness in my soul with food?
An endless smorgasbord of sugar and carbs.
A void that cannot be filled.
I am stuck on empty, yet keeping something filled.
Emerging
Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon,
I’m rising from my deep slumber.
The grip of grief
The depths of misery
Slowly release their force around my neck.
The journey from deep depression
To the surface has at times seemed like eternal eons
And at other times it seemed to flow quickly like raging seas.
Time really does heal
Yet the length not prescribed or set
In fact,
Time can lapse differently,
Possessing its own personality.
For one,
Time speeds along
Like a cheetah to its prey.
For another,
Time slowly slacks,
Like a sloth to the next branch.
But time
Whether quick or slow
Chisels at grief
Changing one’s soul
It never truly leaves
Just makes the griever fortified.
So , I slowly will fly like a butterfly
Bouncing from flower to flower
Taking my time
Embracing all feelings
Healing at my own pace.
Emerging.
Death is Imminent.
Just as I was born of blood,
I will return to dust.
Death knocks at everyone’s door
Each of us answering at a different time.
Just as the doors of life opened for us,
They must also close.
We try to ignore this truth; our destiny,
But often receive reminders
The death of loved ones, inescapable.
Death is imminent.
Constant reminders to cherish the seconds and minutes we are given,
As we learn to live in each moment.
Cemetery Contemplation
I sit feet away from a baby girl
Who died about three months before I was born.
I wonder what she would have been like today.
Would we have been friends?
I sit yards away from an open pit
Expecting its occupant’s arrival today.
Whose partner has waited nearly thirty-three years
To meet his sweetheart again.
I wonder what that reunion would be like today.
Would seeing their glorious reunion bring comfort to the broken hearts of those who lost
Mom, sister, or grandma?
I scan the hundreds of faded, weathered and worn headstones
Each of them representing a person,
Each of them important to somebody.
I wonder if the memories of those departed begin to also fade with time.
Will I one day be forgotten?
I see flowers and trinkets
On or near many of the markers
Only the most recently erected have such tokens
I wonder about those who leave momentos.
Will their giving hearts ever be mended?
I realize that this sanctuary is for us, the living.
Here we come to remember and to reflect.
This spot is not for them; the dead are not present.
I wonder if they ever look down on their own graves.
Would they find our gatherings and rituals strange and unnecessary?
I notice walls surrounding this memorial.
A separation allowing us to leave our world behind for a moment.
A holy site giving solace from problems, worries and cares.
I wonder if everybody feels this same peace within these walls.
Are these bricks enough of a separation from the distractions of the world for all?
I feel the stillness
As I contemplate my purpose here on this planet,
The fact that I too will one day die
Leaving this world and all my earthly possessions behind.
I wonder what I’ll see as most important on that last day.
Will I be scared?
I reflect on what is truly significant in this life.
The flowers and trinkets mean nothing to the dead,
But the people who visit do matter.
I wonder who will visit my future grave.
Will they know I loved them enough?
A punch in the gut
A punch in the gut
A sharp shockwave of sorrow
My mother’s passing.
Mom’s Dead; She won’t answer anymore
It doesn't seem real
She won’t answer anymore
Dialing reminds me.
Instructions
How to deal with death:
Curl up in ball; then repeat
Note: time will vary
Time (A found poem)
Time is an enemy
A fire
Evacuating the soul
Time causes an aggressive search for meaning
Leaning on important memories
Trapped in an escalator
Influencing your dreams
Leaving you scratching your head.
Grief is a Bastard
Alone and abandoned,
you leave it unattended,
packed far down in the darkest
forgotten corners of your brain.
But like a 3-year-old begging for attention,
in a crowded department store,
grief tantrums.
Raging,
punching,
tearing up from
long dried ducts.
Crying alone feels right.
In the dark isolation of a cold room,
under warm covers.
Crying feels like a necessary solo act.
Unlike a musician,
who solos surrounded by a crowd,
and more like a pilot
trying to transatlantic in solitude.
Yet like Amelia,
solo proves fatal,
extending the life of grief,
keeping you alone and abandoned.
Grief truly is a bastard.
Deal with Dementia
Who will answer the phone today?
Will it be the woman who remembers,
the one who interacts?
Or will it be the woman who doesn’t remember,
the one who talks in circles, repeating the same questions?
So sometimes I avoid calling,
then guilt sets in.
Face to face isn't much easier,
sitting in uncomfortable silence,
worrying about what she is thinking,
or feeling.
Knowing the conversation may frustrate her,
may be hard to follow.
Then the anxiety of the "what ifs" enter my mind.
"What if” this is my future?
"What if " that little struggle to find the right word
is an indicator of future struggles?
“What if" I should be seeking early
interventions now.
What if, what it, what if...
Losing a parent is hard
and I often feel like I'm losing Mom,
over and over.
Pieces of her die
in circular conversations.
A reminder of a long hard process
without a predictable end point.
Losing a parent is hard.
Losing a parent over and over is taxing.
Still there is no choice but to
deal with dementia. Grief is a Bastard 2
Dementia is a Thief
Stealing moments that should be monumental,
birthdays once recollected with precision,
now only recalled with reminders.
Names once salient,
now faded,
replaced by relationship tags:
Your husband,
Your daughter,
Your sister.
Physical death still distant
yet mental death is imminent.
Close connection
ripped away like a shoplifter
and their five finger discounts.
Dementia is a thief.
*all poetry written by Alice Ficklin
