What remains

Grief sticks. It wakes me up at night. It defies me. No amount of alcohol helps. No sweetness dulls its bite. It is just there. Hanging out. Reminding me. Like the death that brought it on. It has finality written all over it. Telling me this is it. No matter how much I believed in another life beyond this one. Even more than one life. No, dear. This feels final. One dimensional. Over. I am at odds with my own mind. It will not bend to my desires. Let me see my own intentions.This doesn't mean that something good won't come of it. No, not at all. I predict operas. Paintings. Maybe, even a movie. A slant that leans towards creation. So many were left with unanswered questions waiting. Conversations never had.Exchanges and muffled laughter remembered. Grief now owns the entire lot. Like a greedy landowner. Sweeping everything in. Owning it all. The scream at 3 am. The dreams. The fading scents in the closet. Turning inward. Turning outwards. Twisting. Twisting. Diving like a corkscrew into my depths.

Release

What did she mean, when she talked about release? It was after telling us that the festival was over. Her festival. Her life. Soon after, she died.  It is all so final and I know that it is over. And yet, if she called me up whispering, "Sweetheart", I wouldn't wonder.  Wouldn't be surprised. Hers was a life with staying power. With constant messages.  So much subtext, that it was the only content. I have her reading glasses on my dining room table. The book she never finished. Her clothes are now in my closet. Her jewelry tucked safely away. How can I give away these parts of her? The shell with the label, "Clothes Horse"- making fun of her or me? The silence that comes with death, co-mingled with her scent, invades my bedroom now. She is here and everywhere. She is nowhere.

Trying to find a middle ground, I keep falling lower and lower. Nothing holds. Everyone sends me flowers. But it is only a matter of time and those flowers will wilt and die, as well. The life they once lived still visible. Barely. And then I will be left to rinse out the vase. Throw away the stems. Once again, left with the void of what was once living.

It's a choice now. Run away or stay. Breathe in the scent that won't last much longer. Finger the silk and cashmere. Say goodbye. It is tempting to run. To leave everything behind. But I will not. In her death, I, too, was transformed. And after all, when she talked of release, maybe she was pointing the way for me.

Where are you?

You were with us at the very moment you died. But by the time your funeral rolled around, I knew you were somewhere else. But, where? Your beauty never left you. The strength written on your face. In death, you revealed yourself. A warrior. And then you left. Did you start another battle? Did you save those in need?Are you dancing on a stage? Have you hidden yourself in a Degas or Renoir? Are you fiddling with your friends?  Nestled in a page of a novel?

It's just that I would like to know where you are. So that I know you are protected and safe. I wanted to cradle you in my arms as you lay dying. Mother to you, my own mother. It always happens that way when we are lucky enough. And we were lucky.

Will you send me a sign? It can be mundane. A copper penny. The moon beam catching my face at an odd moment. A parade of snails at my feet. Just let me know. And if you don't. If you have left us behind to find our own way now, I will understand.

In the transformation from old to young, from mother to daughter, you became the maidele once again. Tired of being the North Star for everyone who passed your way. The path no longer worn. I don your clothes. I comfort the bereaved. The circle completes itself.