The man of my dreams has almost faded now. The one I have created in my mind. The sort of man each woman dreams of, in the deepest and most secret reaches of her heart. I can almost see him now before me. — Elise McKenna – Somewhere in Time
ANOTHER YEAR PASSES
This day is nearly over, at least the part marked by a clock, ticking. Ticking in a steady rhythm of time marching on, and yet I find myself hanging on to the last few minutes of the day. Hoping for, wanting, yearning — what? I’m not quite sure. Today, November 9, 2023, marks nineteen years since Kelly breathed his last. Since his spirit escaped his mortal form, free to be. . . to be something ethereal? To be out of pain? To be relieved of the burdens of this life?
He has been freed from this mortal coil and is enlightened, learning, growing; an eternal being. Yet, I remain, here, earthbound; torn between the joys of my life among my children, grandchildren, and friends, and longing to be in his presence. Longing to feel his hands in mine, to bask in his embrace, to be content in his company. But, it is not to be. The time is not now, no matter how much I long for it on some level.
So instead, I give myself permission, for today, to linger in the paths of memory, to pull out nearly forgotten details of our life together, to examine them closely, to recall the gestures, moments, and experiences we shared in our twenty-three years together. Yes, today I will celebrate our love. I will mourn again the abrupt end of our time on earth together, captured in words from my pen.
EXPRESSIONS OF GRIEF IN POETRY
Sleep, Interrupted Sleeping soundly, emptiness Awakens me. Reaching out, I realize He’s not with me, in bed. Sleepily, I stumble upstairs, To urge him to come rest. The TV blares, emitting a flickering light. I turn it off --sudden silence descends. He is lying on the couch, Still, unmoving, Quiet. He's sleeping I think, His legs hanging over the end; Head lolling against the cushion. The room is cold. He is cold. I interrupt the peaceful scene. In controlled panic, I breathe for him My warm lips on his cold, unfeeling ones One, two, three, four, five, breathe, compression– Repeat, repeat, repeat. . . Approaching sirens pierce the early morning stillness. I glimpse the children’s faces, aglow in the flashing lights. Suddenly, the room is filled with Paramedics rushing To his side in purposeful confusion. They take him away, feeding him Through the yawning door of the ambulance. In an early-morning mist, the sirens fade away. Numbed, I enter hospital doors, where a Competent, medical professional leads me to A sterile room, empty now, except for me, and His still form–sprouting wires and tubes. Alone, in suffocating silence, I memorize his face.
Grief Grief Endless void Pain-filled why Ragged sorrow Trapped inside. Stark Countenance Reflects void No intrusion Permitted. Ache Between breasts Constricts breath Woman suffers All alone.
His Hands Longing to feel his hands brush across my cheek, or tangled in my curls; I remember how it felt his fingertips’ touch on the small of my back; My hand in his secure, warm grip, safely held, reassured by his touch. His hands, now still, grave bound; Only in memory do I feel his hands’ soft touch on mine.
KyneWynn's Chronicles 