Writings shared from Zipporah Thaler
Grief is the black patch
In a luscious green forest of
Burnt trees
Trunk still standing
Firmly sunk into the ground
Though this place is
Desolate
Despair
Refusing to move
Sunk in the mud of
Water logged ashes
So many tears
Through all the seasons
Always tasting
Burnt.
Always standing
Cold winds rip
Through the remaining stubs
Of branches
Stabbing bones
No heart
Iced over
Snow covers
Keep freezing
No shelter in the
Burnt woods
Baby buds pulsing
through layers of ash
still standing
still smoldering hurt
pretty leaves dropping
all around the
burnt trees
I feel nothing
They turn brown
I step on them
They crunch beneath my feet
That feels good
Grief.
No summer sun
In the burnt woods
You pass the dead
Trees
Still standing
Always
Looking black
Peeled bark
Layers and layers
Of black
All around is the forest
Of green
Do you see the burnt
Trees
Put your nose to the trees
Inhale
Smell the
Deep grief
Buried
Always there
Lingering.
Grief.
Zipporah Thaler
09/05/22
Writings shared from Debby, member of an in person session of The Mending Word. Prompt: Ugly Grief Truth.
I always imagined grief would be more romantic. All I had was movies, books, and imagination. I didn’t know. Now I know. Grief is ugly. It’s the headache that comes from crying, I never knew such a headache. It’s having a panic attack on a plane because I feel suffocated thinking of my mother in her coffin- How can she breathe? I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. It’s the stillness of my heart and the clenching of my stomach as I imagine the tubes - those dialysis tubes in my father’s neck I won’t sleep, I can’t breathe It’s the image of my mother’s eyes filled with terror It’s the image of my father in his hospital bed, needles in both arms, hands spread out in defeat His tears so silent, I can never unhear them – Why didn’t I just rip them out? What was the point? It’s the memories of bodies I loved morphing into caricatures of disease, ghastly nightmares in my living room. It’s the shrunken bodies and the thinnest of arms. It’s her hairless head. It’s his body wrapped in his tallis, how can that be him, it’s so tiny? Why is his coffin so small? It must be made for a child. That is not my father. Grief is the feeling that you are going insane, quite literally losing your mind it is madness it is agony it is hell, is this real? It is without end. Grief is learning how to tilt your head and shut your eyes so no one knows you are crying, because your time for crying in public has passed. Grief is not reacting when your friend playfully buries your feet in the sand, pretending you aren’t hearing the sound of the earth hitting her coffin. And his. What a sound. Thump. So loud. So blunt. So final. Thump. Thump. Each thump makes your knees go weak until you fall to the earth, closer to them. Grief is forever remembering the moment they checked for a heartbeat. A moment that lasted an eternity, so silent it hurt my ears, hurt my soul. A heartbeat they didn’t find. Grief is when my body shakes, rocks back and forth, like a prayer, like a fever, I cannot take it. Grief is feeling lost, feeling homeless, feeling fleeting. Grief is nausea, grief is not eating, grief is a headache. Grief is how I cannot focus. Grief is quite tangible. And then there is that place in grief where I do not let myself go. There are no words in that grief – only howling. Like a wounded animal. There are no words there.
Writing shared from anonymous member of an in person session of The Mending Word.
Prompt: Ugly Grief Truth
It still doesn't seem real. Maybe that's why it's not as hard. Or at least as hard as it seems for others.
Sometimes that makes me feel bad. Maybe my ego is getting in the way again. Maybe it’s just time.
There are moments of clarity when I realize this is real. But even then, I miss him, but at this point in my life, the thing that gets to me is the fear of death, how real and final it is. I thought I overcame that fear but now I know I didn’t.
Getting back to the prompt:
He loved nature. He'd take us on camping trips and right away take off his shoes and socks to feel the grass.
So when I go to a friends house that has some land and scenic views, for a second I say, I’m gonna bring my dad here next week he'll love it. And in that same second I know that'll actually never happen.
I really wish I could ask him about his own grief. He spoke about his mothers death when he was 13 and later his fathers when in his 20s. A lot. It hurts me that I didn’t listen enough. I say I didn't listen enough because I don’t find his recollections to be helpful in my grief.
I want to see him speaking about it. I feel like I would listen better and he would feel like he was being heard.
The worst part for now though is my mother. It's the absolute worst. This women is alone. Alone doesn't fully describe it, not even close, but there is no word that can. At least none that I know of.
It’s terribly sad. Its also annoying. Who will sleep with her? Where will she be shabbos? My schedule revolves around saying kadish and making sure my poor mother feels like there is still reason to smile and enjoy. She knows it. But I see her face, and the way she drags herself places sometimes. I see her hiding from the cousins. She feels uncomfortable in this world and I wish I can make it better. So it hurts to see it, it's annoying to deal with sometimes, and now I'm hurt that I'm annoyed. But thats how it goes and thats how it will be.