79–I will miss even this
And yet here they are. Here I am. And here we go. This is how it happened for me.
I wonder if this series is too dark.
I wonder if these poems, written at the bedside of death, are too dreary, too sad, too much.
I wonder: why release them? why publish them? why send them out?
I ask myself: Is it just because they’re written down? Is it just because I made them? Is it just because I don’t want to carry them alone anymore?
Who do they serve? How do they serve? Why do they exist in the world at all?
And yet here they are. Here I am. And here we go.
This one, written where it seems to have been written: looking on, as the ravages of an unseen illness took apart a man I loved. The man from whom I came. A man I relied on (perhaps overly so) for all of my life. And I could hardly make sense of it (still can’t).
It is undoubtedly a universal experience to lose our creators. Some of us will do so straight on, watching. For others, it’ll happen off scene, somewhere else. For others still, so incrementally that it won’t seem to be happening at all (until it does).
Whatever it is, however it goes down: it happens.
Here is how it happened for me.
P.S. Happy Father’s Day.