Grief Allows No Sleep, No Laughter (For my mom) Newly widowed, she feels guilty if she laughs. She is so small in their bed and cries out during the night like a child, small gasps of despair. I run my fingers over her soft face and she sighs and seems momentarily comforted. He slept here beside her for sixty-one years. Visiting, I offer my body comfort and warmth. We sleep back to back. When I’m gone the dog lies beside her. She makes a sad sound from far away. She was a schoolgirl of fourteen when she and her friends walked past the mechanics in the shop where my father worked. He said to the guys, “She’s the one for me.” He waited five years to marry her. Part of that time was in the army in Korea. He asked his sister to teach him to dance before he left because if he died in the war he would regret never twirling a woman across the floor. Now she says she is only half alive. She is a shadow of herself, half a glass of water. She drifts off in memory and returns distracted, forgetful and reluctant. “What did you say, honey?” I sleep lightly beside her, waking up when she gets up to look at the clock, sighs, and lies down again. When I leave for the airport she stands in the front porch and makes the sign for I Love You, her hand moves in the circle that means Forever. Only in sleep can I comfort her. She wanders a dense forest but cannot find him. She feels his shadow. He is caught in a curve of light where she can’t see him. She is testament to his absence, determined not to betray what was and cannot be, and she is most often successful.
Posted on: Tue, 26 Aug 2014 03:21:36 +0000
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