Six Years Sunday

I promised I wouldn’t
write about
you this year, thought
the minutiae of my dearest loss was
finally clear,

but the
truth is
I feel as
lost as ever.

Stanzas rise and are

cast aside as
nineteen years
are defined by

how they were lost,
rather than how
they were lived.

A taciturn tale that
met a hammer and nails,
boarding me up like

a
wooden
casket much
like the one your mother had
to ask to keep closed.

My eyes may
never dispose of that coda
burned into
my retinas, reflecting on
the death of

everything I
suspected
was true
about
survival.

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4 thoughts on “Six Years Sunday

  1. I promised myself also that I would not go there about Michelle either….but then I get sent a photo of her when she was only about 4 years old. Still so innocent, and innocence finally lost.

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  2. I want to explain something…..I was not aware that Michelle had ever shared this with others, but you mention it in your poem (i.e. her mother’s wooden casket, so you must have know something of this) One of my life coping mechanisms has been the image of a box. Things I can’t deal with go into the box, but from time to time I open the box again and see what pours out and deal with them. Sometimes I can only deal with a few things, and I have to slam the lid shut. Sometimes I’m not ready to open the lid at all. My box was my final defence. And perhaps my box, also closed out others. Including my children.

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