It is okay to look Loss in the face
And reach out to run your hand along its cheek.
Sometimes it’s good to stare it in the eyes
And whisper “You wound, you always do.”
We drove past the family farm
A place we had no money to buy
And there it goes, to those with pockets deep and full
And I looked at Loss, my companion.
I lecture myself
To smother dreams, to stuff them away
To give no life to them
Do not look, do not hope
Let them die.
There was an 1800’s stone farmhouse on 10.5 acres
Deep windowsills, gleaming wood floors
A kitchen with a professional range
And long stone countertops.
I saw my children running through the woods
Playing in the stream
Curled up by the fireplace at night
I saw the scones lined up on that long counter
Tray after tray going into the oven
For the bed and breakfast guests the next morning.
The dream had curled around my heart
A dream I had no business having
I try you know
To stuff such into a box
But it’s hard to unwrap from my heart
To lift each tendril away when I’d rather embrace
The dream and move into it.
To box instead the sad Loss
And all of its shame and nausea
The way that it says
Nothing will change and you
Are pitiful. Ungrateful. Stupid.
I put the stone house
And all of its loveliness
And the scones, and the woods, and the crackle of the fire
Down into the box and
I let it die.
I don’t understand
And I don’t expect to
And more often than not I
Remember to live into the life I have with joy
But I will not pretend
That loss doesn’t stand beside me
And that my heart isn’t stacked
With boxes of dreams, dying.