On the first Mother's Day weekend after mom died, Chris was working out of state. On the weekends, I bent the rules and told the kids they could sleep wherever they wanted—the basement, the living room, my bed. Their choice.
Read MoreWe made it to the final day of the 7-Day Grief & Loss Poetry Series!
Read MoreDay 6 of the Grief and Loss Poetry Series. ONE MORE DAY to go. Thank you for joining me. I’d love to know how any of these poems have spoken to you or helped you on your own grief and loss journey. Your comments touch my heart more than you know!
Read MoreHere’s the thing though, we do need to give space to our emotions…
Read MoreDay 4 of the 7 Day Grief & Loss Poetry Series. I could probably write an entire book about my mom’s last few weeks of life. Maybe I will. But for now, a poem.
Final Days
Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits play on repeat--
Her favorite
The aide comes in to change her position
Messages ping on my worn-out phone
How is she?
How are YOU?
I’m bringing lasagna to your house tonight.
I flip through old photo albums
And think about the stories they tell
The nurse comes in to report her vitals.
Nothing is changing.
Everything is changing.
Their faces are somber but gentle.
Do you have any questions?
I do. So many, but she can’t answer them anymore.
That night, I eat the lasagna straight out of the pan.
On the first Mother's Day weekend after mom died, Chris was working out of state. On the weekends, I bent the rules and told the kids they could sleep wherever they wanted—the basement, the living room, my bed. Their choice.
Day 6 of the Grief and Loss Poetry Series. ONE MORE DAY to go. Thank you for joining me. I’d love to know how any of these poems have spoken to you or helped you on your own grief and loss journey. Your comments touch my heart more than you know!
Thanks for joining me here for the third day of my 7 Day Grief and Loss Poetry Series on the blog. Grief is a such a bear.
When I was in 8th grade, I tried out for the school play, which was a big deal. 8th graders were the lepers of our school, because we were tacked onto the high school building.
It wasn’t laziness, lack of respect or responsibility, or procrastination that stopped me. It was just pure grief. Too many memories down that street, I guess
Thanks for joining me here for the third day of my 7 Day Grief and Loss Poetry Series on the blog. Grief is a such a bear.
Read MoreI am so glad you’re here for Day 2 of my 7 Day Grief and Loss Poetry Series. The following poem was inspired by a moment that happened to me a few months after I lost my mom. My middle child has a history of asking very thoughtful questions, usually when I least expect it. I’ll never forget the time when he was three years old, sitting in the back seat of the minivan, having recently discovered the wonders of Star Wars. Out of the blue, his little voice pops up. “Mommy,” he says, “Why does Darth Vader have so much badness in his heart?”
His little mind is always wondering, and it turn, he makes me wonder too.
Starry Eyed
It was one of those perfect summer nights
where the sun is still kissing everyone
Even as it sets, and the bugs are somewhere else,
Not touching you one bit.I’m pulling a few weeds and doing a lotta nothing really
While the kids ride bikes in the driveway.
The stars are coming out to say hello
And Jackson stops pedaling to look up.Hey mommy? A question is coming and it’s gonna be deep.
So, is each of the stars, like, a person in heaven
Looking down on us?
Like they can see us but our eyes aren’t strong enough to see them?I go the pragmatic route and we talk about
The solar system and gasses and balls of light
But wouldn’t that be something?
If all the ones we loved and lost could stay in touch?It’s getting pretty dark now, so we walk inside.
I pass by the picture of mom hanging on the wall
I drink from a glass that I took from Grandpa’s cabin before we sold it.
I look in the mirror. Those are dad’s eyes staring back at me.Maybe it’s not that they can see us.
Maybe each ball of light isn’t their visage shining to us all the way from heaven.
But maybe there are other signs, other connections
And maybe we can still stay in touch, after all.
On the first Mother's Day weekend after mom died, Chris was working out of state. On the weekends, I bent the rules and told the kids they could sleep wherever they wanted—the basement, the living room, my bed. Their choice.
Day 6 of the Grief and Loss Poetry Series. ONE MORE DAY to go. Thank you for joining me. I’d love to know how any of these poems have spoken to you or helped you on your own grief and loss journey. Your comments touch my heart more than you know!
Thanks for joining me here for the third day of my 7 Day Grief and Loss Poetry Series on the blog. Grief is a such a bear.
When I was in 8th grade, I tried out for the school play, which was a big deal. 8th graders were the lepers of our school, because we were tacked onto the high school building.
It wasn’t laziness, lack of respect or responsibility, or procrastination that stopped me. It was just pure grief. Too many memories down that street, I guess
Welcome! For the next seven days on the blog, I am going to be sharing poems I have written around the theme of grief and loss. Writing about my losses has been a great source of healing for me, and I want to share a piece of that with you. I want you to know that if you are walking through a grief journey, you are not alone, and I also want to tell you that there is an infinitely wide range of normal when it comes to grief. Don’t let comparison slip in and lie to you, telling you it’s time to be “over it” or conversely, that you have “moved forward” too quickly. Sit in your feelings, give space to them, talk about them, write about them, do what you need to do that will bring about healing. And remember that you are loved and supported as you walk this road.
The following poem was inspired by a very real moment that I witnessed with my beloved Grandpa back in 2003.
A Few Days After The Funeral
Walking through La Rosa Grocery Store
On Orchard Lake Road
He opens the glass door
to grab her a French Cruller
The plastic tongs still pinching it,
suspended in midair
held by his unsteady hands
and then—it hits him like a ton of bricks.After 60 years,
she’s not home anymore
to enjoy it.
Putting the pastry down,
and sliding the tongs back into their designated slot
he wipes his eyes,
turns back to the cart,
and puts one foot in front of the other.
On the first Mother's Day weekend after mom died, Chris was working out of state. On the weekends, I bent the rules and told the kids they could sleep wherever they wanted—the basement, the living room, my bed. Their choice.
Day 6 of the Grief and Loss Poetry Series. ONE MORE DAY to go. Thank you for joining me. I’d love to know how any of these poems have spoken to you or helped you on your own grief and loss journey. Your comments touch my heart more than you know!
Thanks for joining me here for the third day of my 7 Day Grief and Loss Poetry Series on the blog. Grief is a such a bear.
When I was in 8th grade, I tried out for the school play, which was a big deal. 8th graders were the lepers of our school, because we were tacked onto the high school building.
It wasn’t laziness, lack of respect or responsibility, or procrastination that stopped me. It was just pure grief. Too many memories down that street, I guess
When I was in 8th grade, I tried out for the school play, which was a big deal. 8th graders were the lepers of our school, because we were tacked onto the high school building.
Read MoreIt wasn’t laziness, lack of respect or responsibility, or procrastination that stopped me. It was just pure grief. Too many memories down that street, I guess
Read MoreMy paternal grandma, the daughter of Italian immigrants who made their way to Pennsylvania shortly after being greeted by the sights and sounds surrounding Ellis Island, did not grow up with a financially privileged lifestyle.
Read MoreI don’t know about you, but I feel the most connected with God and the most at peace when I am in nature.
Read MoreWe are in the middle of a regional polar vortex, with windchills in Michigan reaching lower than negative 40. The governor has declared a state of emergency, work/school has been cancelled for all of us in my house all week, and we’re all trying not to go stir crazy.
Read More“I’m nervous.” she told me. “I don’t know if I wanna go.”
Read MoreI didn’t do the dishes yesterday. They’re still in the sink…
Read MoreThis week, I listened and talked to someone who is struggling with their parents’ divorce, someone who just lost a parent, someone whose loved one is battling drug addiction, someone who just lost a loved one to suicide, someone who is facing crippling peer pressure, someone who is putting on a smile and showing up when it’s really freaking hard, and there’s more but you get the general idea. Many of these someones were my students between the ages of eight and eleven.
My heart is heavy. I share this to say, we all have a story, so remember to choose kindness with everyone you meet. You just never know what someone is trudging through. There is so much brokenness and hurt and imperfection in this world. Goodness, none of us are immune. Not my sweet students, not the person who checks all the boxes and gets all the gold stars. Sometimes bad things happen and it just stinks. Yes, there is always hope and yes, we can get through hard things, and yes, we can eventually find meaning in the mess, but sometimes the best thing, the only thing, you can do is just say to the broken-hearted—
•I see you.
•I care about you.
•I hurt with you.
•I love you.
If you’re hurting tonight or helping the hurting tonight, just know that those same four statements are all true from me to you. Love you, dear friends. Good night.
This is my first Thanksgiving without my mom, and and since my therapist told me this year that it was okay to actually feel my feelings and name them and not swallow them down like a big old horse pill, I’m trying it out.
So...today, I feel sad.
Today, I am making her cranberry sauce. There is absolutely nothing fancy about it. It is whole cranberries plus water plus a crapload of sugar and that’s it. Don’t come at me with an orange garnish because I don’t want to hear it. This is simple and just about the only uncomplicated part of my mother there was. She didn’t cook much, and that’s understating it, but darnit if she didn’t always contribute the cranberries to the Thanksgiving Day spread. It’s always been my favorite part.
I know I have loads to be thankful for this year, but it’s okay that I’ve got sadness mixed in too. Because grief doesn’t really care what day of the year it is, or if you’ve got a lot going on. Grief is a bear who’s always ready to wrestle with you. Sometimes, you can kick it in the chest and move on with your to-do lists, and other times it pins you to the ground. I guess this is one of those moments for me. Some people say the holidays get easier, some say it gets harder with each passing year. I don’t know, maybe I’ll figure that out eventually. I just know that it makes me feel a tiny little bit better talking about it and naming my bear. Today, it’s called cranberry sauce, made like she made it, in the dish she always put it in.
I bet a lot of you reading this are missing someone too. I bet tomorrow and the weeks to come will be filled with a lot of gratitude and peace and light and love but also a whole lot of suck (not the most eloquent word choice, but hey, it fits). Maybe it will help you too to talk about it. What do you miss the most? Was it her gravy? His prayer before dinner? Her yearly desire to drive around the neighborhood to look at all the Christmas lights? His insistence on getting both turkey legs? Her tradition of putting a candy cane on every Christmas present? His loathing of Black Friday? For me, the bear is a pack of cranberries and some sugar. What’s yours called? Go ahead and name it, own it, and feel it, and then maybe eventually, we can kick it in the chest together.
“What do you want to do this afternoon, punkin seed?” Grandpa asked as he entered the living room, where I lazed about with a chapter book on my lap. Ramona maybe. Or perhaps The Boxcar Children. I looked out the window of the cabin, and felt safe nestled in the woods. Outside it was a scene from a Christmas card. Pines and barren birches and the windy river, all covered in white.
“I don’t know.” I answered. But I knew. “Maybe...make a snowman?”
“Hmm. A snowman. That’s a fine idea. Looks like that’s good packing snow out there.”
It was just him and I up north at the cabin this time, for a few days over Christmas break, and I wished someone else could come outside with me to create a man made of snow. But I was used to being on my own for adventures such as this. I grabbed my snow pants, pulled on my K-Mart boots, and headed out the sliding glass door, down the steps, over the bridge across the Boardman River, and down by the garage, where the cleared space of yard existed. I began to build, packing more and more snow together to make the base. I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn’t even hear Grandpa’s footsteps crunching through the snow behind me.
“Hey there, can I join you?” Grandpa asked.
“Grandpa?” I couldn’t believe it. “You want to?!” I had no idea the thought would even enter his mind. He loved to be outside in every other season, and I always got to help in the garden, rake leaves with him, and sit beside him when he fished. But winter was different. More difficult. He would shovel, but play? But that he did. Or rather, we did, building my favorite snowman of all time. I don’t remember what it looked like, or if we gave it a carrot nose and coal eyes. But I remember Grandpa, kneeling down with his good leg on the ground and his other one bent at 90 degrees, the one that had been a prosthetic since 1927 when he tried to hop on a train on a dare and things went horribly wrong. Together, we made the middle and the top. Together we watched the flakes continue to float down in what would be one of the deepest snows of the year. Together we would stomp back up to and across the bridge, up the porch steps, through the sliding glass door, and back into the warmth of the house.
It was getting dark by then, so he made me something for dinner that Grandma would have hated but we loved. After that, he made a fire and we watched our favorite Marx Brothers movie. I sat on the black leather couch and he sat in his favorite chair, brown and scratchy with the intricate wood carvings on the ends of the arms. It was a perfect day. I had a sneaking suspicion, even then, while still in the single digits, that I would remember it forever.
When I used to hear the word “balance,” I would think of those old fashioned scales ⚖️ that the bankers or an old miser might have used to count their gold and silver. I used to imagine that was the only way to interpret the world...balanced must mean equal distribution. And I let that definition invade and infect my life. I must give equal weight each day and each hour and each moment to my job as a wife, mother, teacher, housekeeper, friend, sister, daughter, human. I must not falter, lest I tip the ever-present scales. I must do it all with a graceful step and a smile. If it sounds impossible, that’s because it is.
Then, somewhere along the way, God woke me up. Somewhere along the way, I remembered that’s not how God wants us to live, constantly running a race and feeling like we’re not really any closer to completing it. We’re not meant to feel like we’re always falling short or not doing enough. I remembered, through a series of events and emotions, that balance doesn’t have to mean what I thought it did. That kind of balance is a myth. Balance as a woman looks different every day. Every hour. Every moment.
It looks like maybe you didn’t have time for a bedtime story tonight, but you all ate breakfast together this morning, and that’s okay. It looks like dirty dishes in the sink, but homework is done, and that’s okay. It looks like you missed soccer sign ups this year, but you taught your oldest how to tie his shoes, and that’s okay. It looks like the laundry isn’t even half done, but you finished a project at work and it made you proud, and that’s okay. Balance doesn’t mean getting every single thing right. You’re not Jesus. Balance means doing the best you can and relying on God when you start to doubt your enough-ness. Because He’s enough and I can’t always wrap my head around it but He thinks I am too. And you. Yes, you, looking at this screen and wondering if I’m talking to someone standing behind you. You. Are. Enough. and loved and worthy of grace. So heap some upon yourself, girlfriend. Let it wash over you like a wave in the sea. Let go of the impossible standards. Let go of the old-fashioned scales. Embrace where you are because you are there with a purpose. God doesn’t need us to be perfect, He just needs us to be present with Him and with our lives, and not strive and perform and balance ourselves to death.
So, repeat after me:
Grace, not perfection.
Very good.
Maybe you think the way I used to, and you’re all caught up in that mythical definition. Maybe tonight you want to set down your many scales. Maybe you are ready to break away from the lies that we are told, saying that we have to do all the things and do them all without a single misstep. Grab onto truth, set down the scales, and walk with a little more freedom in your step, whether you finish the laundry pile or not.
We made it to the final day of the 7-Day Grief & Loss Poetry Series!