Heartbreak is inevitable, but do we have to sing it in a minor key?

It is simply time to let you go. You would not have wanted it any other way. But just because I let you go doesn't mean it will go smoothly. Just as you didn't want to leave, there are those that still don't want to believe that you are gone. So, I  am asking you to appear in their dreams to let them know that you have decided to move on. Explore other options now available to you. I am not asking you to beg, just drop subtle hints that we have mourned enough. That if we miss you, we are just to don some clothes, try on a piece of jewelry or break into song. Heartbreak is awaiting those who hold on too long. Who hold on and on until there is nothing to hold on to. Torn to shreds. Vanishing in their own hands. Falling over from leaning on something that no longer holds. We knew. Eye to eye. Heart to heart. I listened. I waited. I watched. I could hold on, too. But I will not. Such a confluence. Your life. Your death. What they don't realize is that the ending was only a moment in time. Not an anchor.

I sing out tonight. Maybe I've had too much wine, but I don't care who hears it. I am wearing your top. Putting on some earrings now. But, I am not seeing you in the mirror. I see a reckless spirit attempting to move ahead. Not a victim. No bitterness. Just the sweet caress of a mother's voice telling her child she is loved.  In a major key.

Even though the nightingale refuses to sing

She used to tell me that when you die, you die alone.Always. There was no alternative. It was just the way it was. For everybody. She said the same thing about birth. Entering and exiting was the loneliest. So, she brought her children up the very same way. On their own. Flying solo from the very start. A very useful education. Preparing us far in advance for the final chapter.  But she didn't die alone. She was caressed and cooed to. Serenaded. Shouted at. And, because we did not believe in her dictum, we could not leave her. Could not let her go. We circled her bed like wagons around a bonfire. One after another. And when it was over, we stood over her holding each other, so that in her death, we were not alone.

I listen for the nightingale to resume her song, but I am reluctant on all fronts. To move forward or to stay where I am? If I do nothing, I am filled with dread. If I stray and think of other things, what will become of her?

Now I know she is not the pink peony on my table. The scattered rose petals on the sidewalk. The signs are few. What she really meant was that when she died, we would be alone.
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This grieving thing is for the birds

I am sick of black. Once my color of choice, it now has too much meaning. I will wear white. Swaddle myself in kindness.  I have nestled in her sweaters for too long. Tried on every dress. Worn her scarves as veils. Our coloring was different. Nothing really works. And it's not her clothing I am after. But it still holds her shape. Carries her scent.  I am looking for the other side, but getting through to it eludes me. Everything has shifted. There is only here and now. But even then, even there, that other side will only be a memory.  I sleep naked. When I awake, I find myself holding my sister's hand and setting off across an old and familiar city. Without clothes, we cover ourselves in grief.

In grief I discover myself, not her. It's a shock. I thought I would bathe myself in her image and emerge with her next to me.Instead, I only get a glimpse of her back in a dream. A peek.  An occasional memory flooding the place. But it's me that I mainly see. Pale, worn. As if I have been in battle. Almost transparent. You could blow me over. Dwindling from grief's relentless teeth holding me in place.

What now, Dean Dixon?

Black as night. Dreamy. You were her Bernstein. It was never Leonard, it was always Dean. Dean this, Dean that. This woman, that woman. A Vivian here, a Vivian there. And your mother? McClara? We were alway in the dark, she kept it that way intentionally. Never to know. Always to wonder. But she never told. That was the way she was. Saying one thing, meaning another. But even though you were always so vivid,  I doubted your existence.

I wander in search of my own Dean Dixon. It isn't black and white. Not anymore. I was always color blind. Were you? I see you with a violin. A bow. A poised body. Ready to engage. Serious. Intent. I wait for sound. Bow hitting string. Fingers moving up and down. Pizzicato. Imaginary music. No sound emerges.

I know I am not her, but I search for her in my body. My pores. My blue eyes searching out her brown. Dark hair,  blonde. Perhaps it is something in my limbs. In my shape casting a shadow that links us. It has to. Because if there is nothing there, my loneliness will never end. My heart will never stop searching.  Inside and outside, the attachment lingers. The skin grows thinner. The veins reveal the connection. Like her, I prefer light over dark. Inside over out.

He would kiss her words

Inside the dream he never has, a giant scrabble set. She sits at one side of the table, he at the other. Instead of tiles, the words project solidly out of her mouth. He watches her, and waits to catch the words. He would kiss them if he could. Would kiss her. But she is too far away. Too silent.

An old man tries to garden again. He has forgotten how to use color to his advantage. He scatters seeds everywhere, hoping for discovery. Hoping for a sign. A single flower rising up from the earth, waving at him.
Petals falling,one by one.

The urge to fight has left him. He is defenseless against his sorrow. No matter how hard he tries to cover up. Fill the void with an endless line of people. He isn't very good at change.

I always knew this would happen. That I would be left with him, not her. The pearl that was cultivated noticeably absent. The sand still rubbing pointlessly in the shell.

April was the cruellest month

He wasn't paying close enough attention when she told him it was over. She had cheated death so often, he thought she was immortal. He couldn't catch her when she fell to the floor. There was no saving possible.

Now, he is lost, but he does not know it. Maybe he never will. It exists outside of him, something vibrating so deeply that I can feel it in my depths. His fear of being alone chases him. He fights it off, but it leaches on to me. So much aching, it throbs. Shrill and persistent. He begs. His lips search for hers. Every day. But she is gone. She cannot hear him. Cannot feel him. Only I can. But I am not his beloved.  He drugs himself to sleep. He has no wish to dream.  He hums during the day to drown the silence. He remembers too much. It echoes. The moments of awakening. The smile before going silent.

He rids himself of reminders. Puts the television volume too high. Thinks he ,too, will cheat death if he just ignores it all. The black button has been discarded. Officially out of mourning. Without a purpose. What now in the merry month of May?

They say Kaddish is for the living

I am living, yet I cannot say the Kaddish. I had thought I might. But instead of devoting myself to 11 months of recitation, I prefer to write a love story. I will replace continuous prayer with continuous devotion. I will replace love of God with my love for her. I am not reinventing a religion, it is just that religion holds no place for me. Has no heart that beats with the same fervor. It does not understand me. Nor will I attempt to fit myself into a mold, when my grief is so shapeless. It spills over everything. It is solid and liquid and invisible. All at the same time.

Allen gave his Kaddish to Naomi. Mine is for Ruth. I don't think the Kaddish is for the living. I don't think the black button with its torn ribbon is an adequate representation of the condition of my heart. Each day reminds me of what I have lost. Soon, one month will become two. And at the end of 11 months, will it stop? The incantation will cease. The mourners will return to their lives. The scents will fade. Another round of Kaddish will begin for those with the voice and the inclination.

No longer certain of anything

Each day begins the same way. In disbelief. It cannot be. Yet I know that the voice I long to hear is no longer. I know the age worn  finger tips are somewhere else. The tissues tucked up sleeves and stuffed into pockets are vestiges to be discovered and tossed, not revered. She never believed in an afterlife. Never thought she had lived before.  Never thought she was once a princess or a pirate. Just a girl from Brooklyn.  And so it is that we face her death.Over and done. Once. In the manner she lived.  We, who were there, surrounding her, think otherwise. Perhaps she could not see beyond or perhaps she didn't want to frighten us. Still children. Her children. Believing that she had merely paused. Closed her eyes and become young once more. With her energy released from her body, we all inhaled and took her in. It may have been for the last time, but we do not believe that she is lost. The stages of grief do not apply. The life may no longer be lived but she scattered herself everywhere. Will I spend my life searching for the pieces?

Heavenly Brooklyn

Does everyone from Brooklyn end up in the same place? Do they drink egg creams together?  Is she that raven-haired beauty, once again? Brooklyn.  Brooklyn. Brooklyn. Would I be more blue in Brooklyn? Is it possible to be bluer? The French say avoir le cafard, which makes me even sadder and more uncomfortable. I can't even pronounce it properly.  Maybe if I had a cigarette hanging from one side of my mouth as I said, "J'ai le cafard" it might be more convincing. At least to me. As it stands, I just descend into it.

My week brings more flowers. Roses. Tulips. Irises. Birthday flowers. It hasn't even been a month, there isn't room to celebrate. And, what would I be celebrating? The first year without her? A day that lacks a wish in a voice that has sustained me for years?  That isn't something I wish to celebrate. You know, I really understand those old Italian widows in their black dresses. I never could before. So dowdy. So bleak. They never go out of mourning. Grieving just becomes another texture.

She seems to be populating everyone else's dreams. But not mine.  She has chosen a difference course. In the swirling minutes at the end, I took her in. Sheltered her. Touched the soft pads of her finger tips for the last time.  Pressed finger to finger. Taking what was left to me.

The leopard sits on my dresser

No sharpened claws. No fear of attack. An empty sweater set is all. Petite. Worn. Waiting to be discarded. Or, woven into a painting. Playfully worn as a hat. Patted to bring back a memory or two. This incessant focus on the objects won't last much longer. So, we breathe it in. Breathe it out. Hold hands. Say, " I love you" over and over again. It is all true. Especially to the touch. You can still feel it. But you can't make much sense of it. And all the I love yous won't still the pain. We cringe in her absence. Cry and then go painfully dry.   There is silence on the other end. A few signs, but nothing to hang my hat on. I was hoping for more. But then, I am afraid to let her into my dreams. What would she tell me?  Or, even worse. Maybe she wouldn't tell me. I hold her shoes in my hands. I am holding her feet. I keep hoping. Holding. It is what keeps me going. Knowing that in her darkest moment, she emerged as light. Her feet were left behind.

A ripened fig

Her voice keeps traveling. Stays with us. A voice with slight tremors. Vibrations we can still feel. Hedoooooo. Echoing. Richocheting deep. Allll my looooooooooove. Love. Deep. Heart. Pulsating. How it still keeps. It will always stay within. The voice mails that are circulating will run their course. The last gasp. The sigh. All the intentions. Everything will cease. And then? Like the ripe fig, splayed open to reveal the opulence of its fruit, we will be left with such riches. The question is, can each of us partake? Can we share this treasure?

An anger pervades. It is flying solo. Sneaking in and out. It has no place. That is what keeps it going. I want. I need. I am. Me. ME. MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

No place for anger. No home for what it brings. We have come to the place of offering. We have come further than death. Death was just a passage on the journey.

In the deepest depth, the heart has no shape. The love looks no further. Take your fill. Breathe it in. The time is now and forever. Slowly. Melting away. Emptiness begs for completion. Shapes look for direction.  A kiss for lips.

Cold as Russia

In that vast open heart of his a cold has settled in. The valves narrow. Constrict. Writhe in loneliness. He walks around telling us that he has no one to talk to. Even as he talks to us. No one. It is that no one we are all missing. She has become the negative space in his presence. He cannot see her. If he did, he would sneak away to his room, shut the door and have the conversation of his life.   He would build a secret shrine to her. Light a candle. Reflect. Inhale her absence. She is watching over him. But he does not see her. Does not feel her. He only feels the onset of his pain. He wears his mourner's button.  A black stain. It plunges him into darkness. He cannot dream of love.

Beauty inside

I was beautiful inside. That's what she always said. Beautiful inside. But it's not what I wanted to hear. She was beautiful outside. She was smart. Shining. Talented. An example. I was always on the outside looking in at her. Kept out of that club. I knew it. She knew it. I was forced to look elsewhere. But I kept looking back over my shoulder. Looking for something that wasn't there. Something imagined. An inspiration. A key with the right to enter.

None of it matters anymore.  Everything merges. Only the center holds. She was right, of course.  Grasping her beauty in its depth was an inside job.