They say “it will pass.” What they don’t understand Is that for a long time you don’t want it to. But let go and you abandon her forever. And so you cry, hard bitter ugly tears, That hurt with a pain as real as pleurisy. The monstrous millstone of your grief remains: A crashing burden tied around you neck, That you cannot bear to and yet cannot put down.
The days go past you, and at first you count them, A week, ten days ago, she was still alive. Unwillingly, compulsively, remorselessly You drag your memory down that final day: The inexorable path that always leads to death No matter how you try to circumvent it.
Occasionally you let yourself forget: You catch yourself laughing and enjoying things. And though you feel guilty, each act of forgetfulness, Each moment you live without your grief Is a small step to a morning after. And gives you the strength to go on one more day. There even comes a time when you can’t remember How many days it is since she died. Unless you stop and count them carefully And sometimes you even recall her with a smile.
So life goes on and though you ride a see-saw And the slightest thing can plunge you down again: Deep down you understand, now it is self-pity As much as grief that causes you to cry. And the weeks become months and the months turn into years, Till at last you find your miracle; You find it no longer matters that she died, Only that she lived and loved and was beautiful.
-Deborah Lisson
