Break

I think I'll let Tennyson speak for me today: three years.  Break, break, break, indeed.


Break, Break, Break

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson


Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.




O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!



And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!



Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

May Day

Three years ago today (at almost this exact moment) I began a walk up Kennesaw Mountain.  (It was actually more like a waddle and less like a walk.)  I rubbed my belly while I worked my way up that mountain road.  A gentle rain began as I neared the top.  I can remember listening to 'Strawberry Swing' by Coldplay as I stopped at the lookout point, spotted the roof of the hospital, and informed my sweet William that very soon I would be meeting him there.  That was a blessed time--in the words of Mary Shelley, "when death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart."
I still head up that mountain road from time to time.  Each time, I stop at the same lookout point.  I spot that same roof, and I thank God for that memory.  And then I weep for a brief moment before I continue on to the top of that mountain. I'll keep going to that spot, for as long as my bones will carry me there. And I'll rejoice in how fortunate I am to have that moment to hold on to. 

Strawberry Swing

 They were sitting, they were sitting in the strawberry swing

And every moment was so precious

They were sitting, they were talking in the strawberry swing

And everybody was for fighting, wouldn't wanna waste a thing

Cold, cold water bring me 'round

Now my feet won't touch the ground

Cold, cold water what you say?

It's such, it's such a perfect day, it's such a perfect day

I remember we were walking up to strawberry swing

I can't wait 'til the morning, wouldn't wanna change a thing

People moving all the time inside a perfect straight line

Don't you wanna curve away?

It's such it's such a perfect day, it's such a perfect day

Ah, now the sky could be blue, I don't mind

Without you it's a waste of time

Could be blue, I don't mind

Without you it's a waste of time

The sky could be blue, could be gray

Without you I just slide away

The sky could be blue, I don't mind

Without you it's a waste of time

Begin

"Begin" by The Wailin' Jennys

Hey, maybe the timejust wasn't right to hang on
When are you gonna learn
Sometimes things turn instead of turn out
Hey, when are you gonna stand
Stop looking over your shoulder
Me, with a head full of words
And not one useful expression
Hey, let go
We, with holes in our hearts
Were whole at the start
Our story began
We film ourselves 'til the end
Try to suspend our lives in the dark
Hey, when are you gonna stand
Stop looking over your shoulder
See, there's a sun in the sky
And a moon that will take us til morning
When are you gonna stand
Stop and begin this moment
Hey, let go
Let go (will we be the ones to understand?)...

"April is the cruellest month" --TS Eliot

Spring used to be my favorite season.
Its charm is lost now.
Spring is pain.
Spring is remembering.
Spring is losing.
Spring is leaving.

Now Spring is turning my face and inching forward one step at a time.
So I inch and try my hardest not to look back.

Sometimes I turn back for just a moment, like Lot's wife.
I am a pillar of ash.

Five years of struggle and strain.
I put my foot down in the Spring...and that step was so powerful; it jars me still.

Three years of that awful ache. I am reminded each Spring that, no matter how far I think I've come, I'm still one of the walking wounded.

Two that I miss...I miss so much that I retch and curse.
Two that are gone and will not return to me again while I have breath and light.

The two.

One held my hand and loved me and shared my days--he knew my Name.
And he dissolved before my eyes.

The second...well, the second slowly filled me up for nine sweet months and was gone before I awoke.

Spring used to be my favorite season.

Will

Warm. He was heat,
A little radiating handful.
Pink and perfect,
Except for the mouth that hung open and odd.
Dark tendrils still wet, plastered to his tiny scalp
After his first—his only bath.
A lullaby of apologies,
Then the gentle pressure of his form,
The curvature of his spine
Was lifted out of my hands.
He was gone,
And my arms hung limp beside my treacherous body.

The Falling Star

by Sara Teasdale

I saw a star slide down the sky,
Blinding the north as it went by,
Too burning and too quick to hold,
Too lovely to be bought or sold,
Good only to make wishes on
And then forever to be gone.