The Heavy

April 13, 2012 Candace Morris 1 Comments










The doctors tell us to prepare for the end, but my being fights it still.  I chide myself heavily for denial.  I berate my desire to swoop in and save her.  I sit uncomfortably in moments of guilt where I forget that anything is wrong.

The only truth I cling to is that there is no correct way to grieve.  There is no manual for death, no perfect thing to say to the family, and no ideal way to endure.  We are as we are.  We survive, we compartmentalize, we create coping mechanisms, we lash out, we drink too much, we don't sleep enough, we find faith, we lose faith.  No analysis, no questions, no higher road to travel.

We just have to be.
Red.
Mooney.
Madame.
Saint.

As I stare at the kitchen window,
looking at nothing and everything.
Suddenly, I realize how perfect the flowers are.
How fragrant the wind is.
And how all is a gift to help us endure
the unthinkable.



I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone
Rainier Maria Rilke


I am too alone in the world, and not alone enough
to make every minute holy.
I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough
just to lie before you like a thing,
shrewd and secretive.
I want my own will, and I want simply to be with my will,
as it goes toward action,
and in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times
when something is coming near,
I want to be with those who know secret things
or else alone.
I want to be a mirror for your whole body,
and I never want to be blind, or to be too old
to hold up your heavy and swaying picture.
I want to unfold.
I don't want to stay folded anywhere,
because where I am folded, there I am a lie.
And I want my grasp of things
true before you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I looked at
closely for a long time,
like a saying that I finally understood,
like the pitcher I use every day,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that took me safely
through the wildest storm of all.








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