Hello Dear Earth –
Here I am, at the end of a day that was, like most of them, quite pleasant – on which I suddenly understood that, underneath, I’m always marking time: waiting to tell Andrew (who has been dead these seven years and more) all about it all, the big things and the minutiae.
Earth, you are quietly wet tonight. I hear the rustle of very soft rain outside, almost silent.
Leaning in, I become aware of my fingers aching, old and cold.
Listing gratitudes: The many alive conversations with Andrew; how all the big and small things mattered and merged, and still do. That the stinging in my fingers is, after all, small.
Offering my closing eyelids, I say goodnight.
Sharing this, some months later, in Writers' Pantry #41 at Poets and Storytellers United.
It is ten years for me and still there is so much of her around me. Strangely that is a comfort though.
ReplyDeleteYes, I find it a comfort too.
DeleteYou will always get ambushed with those feelings. It never goes away.
ReplyDeleteNo, I don't expect it to go away – and I wouldn't really want it to.
DeleteI do a similar marking of time, Rosemary, waiting to tell my mum about weekly happenings, and her phone call never comes – it stopped long before she died, dementia made sure of that. I too was listening to the ‘rustle of very soft rain’ in the wee hours of this morning. It has stopped now, and the sun is trying its damnedest to make the remaining quinces glow.
ReplyDeleteIt's nice to meet across the oceans, Kim, and find so much fellow-feeling and like experiences.
DeleteSo delicately and yet powerfully written
ReplyDeleteThank you, I'm glad you find it so.
DeleteAchy breaky and yet sweet. I speak to those I lost too, in my heart. (Father and fur son). As a pluviophile, the feeling gets keener when it rains.
ReplyDeleteWhat a lovely word, pluviophile. (Though rain-lover is nice too.) Ah yes, I have furry loves I also talk to, who are no longer physically here.
DeleteI know your situation is a part of life but I dont know how you bear the pain of it. Hugs.
ReplyDeleteHugs from caring friends (even virtual hugs) do help! xx
DeleteReading these are balm and lesson at once.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad they give you something.
DeleteMy little brother has been gone for 7 years, and I still speak to him often: when I'm cooking his favorite foods, when I hear a song he loved, when I'm doing something I know would've made him laugh, when my family is driving me crazy, when good and bad things happen... This time of year, I find myself talking to him more about the small things and the enormous ones. Doing so feels... right, soothing.
ReplyDeleteI so hope your fingers feel better soon.
How lovely to have been (and still be) so close to your little brother. Yet how sad that– obviously – he left when still young. Yes, the talking helps in all manner of ways with all manner of things. (The fingers are better in warmer weather, which is happening here now.)
DeleteYou and Earth have an intimate relationship. It seems you can tell her everything.
ReplyDeleteShe is receptive, patient, accepting and non-judgmental.
Deletethe longing is always there, never far away.
ReplyDeletei think i know this feeling too.
I read your writings, my friend. I am sure you do.
DeleteLove lingers in you hello acrostic
ReplyDeleteHappy Sunday. Stay safe
Much💛love
Thanks Gillena, same to you.
DeleteIt's 41 years for me, and still he visits occasionally in dreams, and still I find myself marveling at the changes in this city he loved and wondering what he would think if he could see it now! I love your way with words, Rosemary!
ReplyDeleteOnly 8 years for me (8 years, 1 month, 9 days). The recent realisation that it's 8 already stabbed my heart ... but mostly it is a pleasure to still communicate. And yes, I too notice the way this place has changed since, as places do....
DeleteI love this. I talk to my father a lot. The windchimes he made are in my garden, and they move and play with the slightest breeze. I spend a lot of time talking to him there.
ReplyDeleteHow lovely to have those wind chimes as a connection!
DeleteSo special. Exhaling a huge sigh now ... I often find myself talking to my mother or saying out loud .. 'where is Mother when I need her?' She is there though as every yellow butterfly I spy.
ReplyDeleteIt's lovely that the yellow butterflies signal her presence.
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