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Tag: grief

Tricks of the tale

I wrote a little story last year. It was about music and its potential power and beauty.

It explored the terrifying notion of how it might feel to exist without music in our world. It was a tender little piece. A few words for a fun little contest. Shot out and carried away on the shimmering wind. But it had magic, for all its lightness and air. It had depth.

“She’ll leave. No warnings. No demands. She’ll just go. And she’ll take the music with her. We’re the forest of the sounds.” 

I wrote it, I think, when I was spending time my dad, just before he started dying. A sad time, but also a time I’ll always treasure. Time we spent singing. And crying from all the joy it gave us.

And, now, I sing to remember what that felt like. But mostly I sing for the love of the song. For the joy of it in my bones.

And tonight I rediscovered that little story of the lost song.

So, I think; really? What did you know, little brain, that you wouldn’t tell me? Or what did you tell me that I couldn’t hear back then? But you saved it for me, I think. I truly do.

When we write fiction we think we can put some sort of partition between our minds, our own selves, and our imagination.

We’re just fooling ourselves. In the most beautiful of ways. We’re always there, even when we think we’re not. Especially when we think we’re not.

Wonderful, isn’t it.

On time, passing

harsh light fading to gentle light on reeds next to a riverThere were many moments over the last few months when I wished I’d been on time. On time to be somewhere, on time for a deadline or a project, on time to see someone or do something.

Then one moment gathered all those moments. When I needed it most, I was there. I was with him, and he knew it. Knew me. Not just in that final second, but in the weeks, months and nights that led to it. This moment had stitched itself through many others.

It still haunts me, that I might not have made it. That my dad might have died without me. Not alone, not unloved, but with everything for us still unresolved. I had one like that this year. It’s too harsh to ever describe.

So, right now, I guess that’s how I’m feeling. That all those smaller moments add up. There’ve been plenty of times in my life that I didn’t make it. Times when other loved ones have been alone. But this time, yeah, this one damn time. Time was with me. For once, it was on my side.

Time seems to have left me since then. It’s like the usual elasticity of time has worn out. It’s still elastic, but it’s so thin I don’t sense it the same way. I read clocks and understand that I’m late or early. But I’m adrift in a sea of seconds or maybe hours. I’m strangely happy this way.

I know it’ll stop. I know I’ll adjust.

You know what, though? Right now, in this long and lengthening moment, I’ll stand. His invisible hand in mine. Watching time and all its inhabitants rush by.




a river, surrounded by stone walls. black and white photo.

time is a river

I put markers in
like stepping stones
to remember,
I send leaves drifting
to forget.

the river drags it all away.
a stone sinks,
a memory fades.
submerged leaves resurface;
suddenly rise and sink again.

I cling to the river
try and cease its passing

it forges on
pulling me with it.
behind me
someone falls behind.

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