Every day a hundred ways to know you are gone.
Sometimes, I can’t help but wish that I could move on.
You left me with so many spaces, so many empty places,
left me with so many spaces, too many empty places.
A question in grief group last week gave me pause,
“Are you struggling more now, with Covid the cause?”
Answers varied, and yet most replies shared a thread:
We were already maxed-out on grieving our dead.
Losing children had broken us, brought us so low
that in truth, there was not that much further to go.
The Savior’s life was lived in prayer,
a custom born of love and need.
So many pains were His to bear,
so many causes His to plead.
image by Clarissa Meyer on UnsplashSolitude is so much sweeter
when it isn’t forced,
when it is freely sought
and freely ended.
image by Ralf Skirr on UnsplashA breeze as gentle as can be
rises above the northern sea,
slips beyond a starry sky,
brushes him with a wishful sigh.
It ruffles softly through his hair,
dusts lilting bits of sweetness there,
each dear, familiar melody
awash in love and memory.
As Easter beckons to my soul,
one question fills my humbled heart.
In honoring Christ’s sacrifice,
how will I know my sacred part?
I’m in a battle for myself,
and I’m afraid to lose.
Life used to feel more solid,
like I had a right to choose
This is the why poem,
The why-did-you-die poem,
The why-did-you-have-to-be-
stuck-in-the-eye poem,