When my mother passed away four years ago, I wanted to revolt against society's heartless demand that I just push through the dense muck of my murky feelings. People continued to say,"It's good to stay busy," but I didn't want to be busy. I wanted to collapse. Thankfully, I was given a week off from work where I could attend to the business side of death, but I didn't really have the chance to grieve let alone begin to grieve. About three weeks later, the school year ended. I spent my summer sifting through my mother's home and deciding what to keep, donate or toss. My mom was incredibly eclectic and possessed a wealth of treasures from historical documents to unique antiques and a ton of artwork. Cleaning out her home was like embarking upon a treasure hunt each day. I even found my great-grandmother's Ellis Island identification card in my mother's medicine cabinet! Needless to say, it took a lot of time and energy to empty my mother's house and have it market ready by the time returned to the classroom. While I accomplished my goal and sold her house that fall, I felt resentful that I hadn't had sufficient time to attend to my grief. Matters were further complicated by the fact that my mom and I had an incredibly messy and complicated relationship. One of the many surprising gifts of this sabbatical year is that I've had time to grieve and be with all that I was unable to process at the time of my mother's death. I wrote this poem the other day.
I have another recently written poem that speaks to plunging into the unknown and living life fully. I'll post it tonight!
A Complicated Love
by Lauren Taub Cohen
Sulky, silky blue
to satin, sable
night –
Bulky shadows
pass beneath
my window
in the direction
of promises waiting
patiently.
Five, fledgling flames
chirp silently in their
cozy nests of
scented wax
and a sense of ease
begins to settle
upon my lap
like a purring cat
gone slack.
A frozen stream
of grief begins to thaw
and streaks my cheeks
with salty prayers and pleas
to forgive and be forgiven
even from
afar.
