Watching Men Work

The roar of a landing in the Victoria harbour shifts my attention.
I watch as the pilot jumps from the runner of a crimson and white floatplane. He whips the rope around the cleat. He hangs onto the span that runs to the wing and orients the plane. He adjusts the rope, grabs and positions a portable step, and two more men climb down onto the dock, with their backpacks, leather jackets, and baseball caps.

Memories flood my head and heart. Grief does this. It takes me away from where I am to where HE was.

one of our redheads and his papa building

I watched…

With this ring, I thee wed…now what?!?

The anniversary ring and his band… 

With this ring, I thee wed…now what?!?

The Power of Gray Eyes and the Importance of Patient Advocacy

Rating: This is an “Adults Only” story.
On the writing process: I have written this story in first person and as a poem – my revisiting of the topic in different voices and genres tells me that it is a story aching to be told. I needed the distance that third person gives to be able work with its message. When I write personal narrative or memoir, I am relying on my memory. One of the essential practices of the AWA method is that “writing is treated as fiction”. This allows my memories to flow freely. This story happened. It’s retelling is as accurate as my memory can be.

Usually, the young man’s eyes were blue and soft – especially with her. And in their gentleness, the girl’s dad saw an honesty and kindness that he wanted for his only daughter. Even more than that, her school-principal dad admired the brilliance that shone in those eyes and on report cards. Her dad recognized real potential in that blue-eyed, slim, ambitious boy.

Then, just months after their wedding, the young man’s eyes turned gray and fierce as he reacted to her pleas for a baby – “I WILL NOT be a teenaged dad!”

They decided that March would be the month. He would be twenty. No more condoms or foam.

Home…

4 feet of air above his 6 foot frame
Wall space enough for his 2nd born’s canvas

Dark, cinnamon spice hardwood
2 bodies embracing on the downy shag rug

8 steps up to the king size bed
A view of the pond for his 5 am drooping eyes

1 pair of geese in spring, school bells in fall
4 pairs of smeary hands at Christmas

On Choosing…

This post was originally written in Feb. 2017 in response to a discussion with someone whose grief has a different birthplace than my own.  

The Creek (2014) His favourite place..

On Choosing…

The island with its warm, tropical waters, and fragrant air is just a place.

The creek with pine needles and squirrel chatter is just a place.

The pond with geese and chocolate cat tails is just a place.

Anguish follows us wherever we go.
Escape eludes us.
Grief drapes around us…a shroud.

Now brings memories…

This poem was written on a writing trip to Ireland in the summer of 2016 – the prompt was “I remember…”    Now finds me remembering the teen him.

I remember…
Sitting in his red Buick Skylark with the white roof
He gave up the little blue Datsun after our first date because of its bucket seats

I remember…
The white, vinyl bench seat with our shoulders, elbows, and thighs sharing electric warmth, hands entwined
Examining the soft brown, gold flecked hair on his arms, his freckles

I remember…
My mind filled with the dreams of being 16 and just knowing
My mind in submission to my heart and often to my hormones

On his pain and “The Fault in our Stars”

Welcome to my journey from grief to life…I wrote this story 3 years ago and I am finally, at almost 5 years away from his tragic death, able to work with the words…to read them…to give voice to them.  Ours was a crazy, beautiful, imperfect love story that started in high school and ended decades later by no choice of our own.  I am choosing to honour him by telling our story and living and finding joy in now.  Join me.

PAIN! He was unable to communicate the extent of it with words – language was not his thing – but his eyes told the story and later his whole body would.  I was stunned by the language chosen by John Green to describe the PAIN of cancer (more on that in a bit).  My husband experienced PAIN that was so fierce that it was the 3rd partner in our marriage.  PAIN was the controlling, unrelentingly abusive spouse.