Thursday, December 27, 2012

This is not the day I quit

I wanted to come here with eloquent thoughts and well chosen words.  I have failed to do so.

Every time I looked within my heart, I saw rage and rust, red-hot and jagged ... no comfort, no healing, no well-timed verse.  Just anger.  And fear.  And grief.

And, so I left this page silent.

I had a birthday.
It was perhaps the worst birthday of my life.
I broke into shards, slicing away, angry. Hurt.
Feeling guilty for going on with life.

It was ridiculous and pitiful.
I have so much and yet there I was feeling sorry for myself,
as if I would give it all up or trade places.
Not a second of it!
I want every selfish bit of this life,
even the coarse spots
and the empty places.

I have more than I deserve
and well know it.

Grief is a prickly, sour thing.
Impossible to swallow
without the sweet to chase it.

It isn't like me to not know what to say.
Every once in a while, to be humbled in that way is good for me.
So I tell myself.

I want things to make sense.
I want there to be explanations.
I want there to be control.

When the world is spinning, spinning, spinning on its crazy tilted axis there is no pause,
no chance to catch our breath,
no moment to regroup.
Only forward motion.

When things go violently awry
when mothers cry out
when the dust settles
I am angry.

How could this be?
Who would allow it?
Who is to blame?

And there are no uncomplicated answers.
There is no easy peace.
And that makes me angry, too.

I want to shine a light,
refuse the darkness.
I weave a protective web around my home
and woe to those who would try to break it.

My children do not need to know.
I will hold their world as safe
until I can no longer keep its vile secret.
And I will silence
those who dare to speak so callously of current events,
as if there were no blood,
no empty arms.
Who are we to even speak of it?

The snow falls,
sugar coating the ugly places
and I am

I can only do small deeds,
tiny drops,

But I believe in ripples,
waves crashing on beaches,
and echos
that grow
to deafening roars.

Christmas comes and the day is joyful.
There are three generations around my table,
four smiling faces born of my own broken body.
Who am I to be so blessed?

I am happy and yet, so very heartbroken.
I think of other mothers miles away.

I squeeze the tiny hand in mine a little tighter,
as if that will be enough.


"This is not day you quit.
This is not the day you cry."
- Sarah Ban Breathnach

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