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.
