Well, it's been a crazy couple of weeks for this half of the blogging project. For our theme of outside, I initially wanted to write about my great-grandmother, her roses, and the last time I saw her.
I still want to write about that, but something else came up. Two weeks ago my uncle committed suicide. He parked his car, walked through Discovery Park in Seattle, sat on a bench, and shot himself. Last week I was in Seattle with family; since returning home I've talked to my mother and e-mailed my aunts, uncles, and grandparents daily. There has been a lot to process. I am turning to words frequently as I work through what has happened.
On Monday night I took a notebook to the wine bar for jazz night, sat in a corner, and wrote out a few things. The prose I attempted was flat, accusatory, and bad. Then I decided to write a poem, which, in all honesty, is probably also flat, accusatory, and bad. But, it's what I have to give this week.
I know some of you already knew about this death. Thank you for all the thoughts and prayers. We've certainly felt them surrounding us and lifting us up.
Peace,
LLM
***
I do not know
the weight of a gun,
the feel of the cool metal
against my skin.
I do not know
what it is to pull a trigger
and know that the target has been hit.
I do not know
the beauty and terror
of one's last view of this earth.
But I sat on your bench last week
and saw nothing but glory,
felt nothing but despair.
That second to last stanza left me breathless.
ReplyDeleteI know this is hard, peanut. You've been in my heart since I came over to your house and while you were gone.
I'm not sure there is any way to process this. Maybe some kind of acceptance is all that can be done. And in the meantime, there is the task of trying to mend the fabric of the family that has been rent. So very hard!
ReplyDeleteWe are with you,
Kay