Hello friends, writers and readers.
I hope this week finds you getting back into the swing of things and finding a groove. Whether that’s winding down summer and getting ready for fall, or getting your kiddos back into school, I hope you’re finding some time to rebalance, and recenter. I’ve got a little teaser for a book I’ve been working on this year. I thought it might be a change from the poetry I normally offer and maybe a preview of a book that will hopefully be coming out within the next year.
Enjoy!
No Words After I Love You: Excerpt
““I’ve never believed in God, but I believe even less now. If there ever was a God, then it was her. My planets revolved around her and the world did not deserve the warmth of her star. None of us deserved her.” Don knows I mean him; the great idiot has to know. I hang my head, chance a glance at the crowd, blurred through eyes that are viciously crying, despite my resolution to be angry over sad. “God doesn’t deserve her either.”
That’s all. That’s all I can get out and not point my finger at Don and his treacherous heart. How dare he ruin the last testament to my wife, even if I didn’t want to be here. How dare he show up and mourn a woman who was mine? I sit down next to my father who clears his throat and in it, speaks a volume of reprimands.
Denouncing God in front of the entire church on such a sacred day such as this, Charles?
“Add it to my tab, Dad,” I whisper beneath my breath.
The flurry doesn’t stop, and I think I sign some paperwork, and I collect the ashes, which were to be separated and scattered, between New York and Georgia. Both urns come home to the apartment, where a good old-fashioned wake has been dictated by my late bride. A wake.
Wakes are for Catholics, I’d said. She shrugged in her robe and took my chin in her hand.
They always seem like fun, is what she had said.
Of her own funeral, she wanted it to…seem fun. She wanted wine and music and dancing and laughing. I have the wine. I think Meg did that. Meg ordered the food too…It’s all here, and so is the endless trail of well-wishers, face after face. Graceless, awkward patting of my shoulder from nearly all. Gina was the hugger. They are not sure what to do with me.
The only thing that’s not here is Meg and I look at every new face that enters the apartment, every milling sheep as though she’s snuck in. Where in the hell is that girl? Maybe it’s my brain, trying to distract from my grief, but it’s got me worried. I haven’t talked to her since that morning when she asked me where to put the flowers after the service. I said I didn’t care. She said she thought she could donate them…
I said God could shove them up his ass. She said she was too short to reach, but she’d see what she could do…I unexpectedly smile in the middle of someone else’s story.
Where is Meg? Did she get left at the church? Left by the people she loved, once more? Orphaned again?
Two hours into the malicious and introvert nightmare, and the endless parade of people (thankfully Don must have taken my not-so-subtle hint and had the mind to stay away) is starting to quiet.
Meg walks in. I watch, from the kitchen as she sneaks through the front door, as if she’s trying to slip in without opening another wound. Her nose is pink and her eyes are watery from the cold. Or maybe its the grief.
She hangs up her scarf and that old threadbare coat. She pauses to say hello to my father, as if he deserved her softness. She’s walking through, not a soul recognizing the plainness of her, the very un-Broadway nature of Meg, in her simple black dress, probably the only one she owns, and probably only because Gina helped her find it. She gives people that awkward, tight-lipped smile that one offers in these situations, perhaps a handshake or a fluttering pat on the shoulder. But no words are exchanged.
My God, but she’s given me something to focus on. Poetry in her plainness, an anchor in this stormy sea.
I can tell she doesn’t want to be here. I can tell she knows she doesn’t belong.
I feel like she might try to sneak out. Give me some awful excuse tomorrow, like she was there but missed me in the hustle bustle of it all. But I can’t let that happen. Because she needs to know…she’s not abandoned. Someone notices. Gina begged me to notice her. As she passes the kitchen I reach out and take her wrist in my hand. It’s small and just the act of wrapping fingers around her bones halts her world.
I always think Meg is so much bigger, but she pulls easily into my arms and I’m just as startled as she is. The kitchen is quiet and I’m not sure why I react like such a desperate man, thinking she might leave. I’m not sure what to do now, with Meg so close. I cannot account for the grief in me. I am desperate. For any normalcy. For someone not in the business. Someone who…knows me.
“Where have you been?” I hiss.
“The park?”
My heart shoots up into my throat. The smallness of her wrist and how easily I was able to kidnap her into the kitchen makes me overpour in worry.
“By yourself?”
“I couldn’t—” she pauses and looks into my face. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“Didn’t think I’d notice? That you weren’t here?” Words come out of my mouth. I’ve been regulating all day. I can’t regulate with Meg.
“You’ve got a lot of people here and more socializing than I know you want to do. I didn’t want to be one more obligation for you.”
Martin, one of my favorite horn players from the pit of many a show-stopper, steps into the kitchen for another sandwich. He gives Meg an awkward, tight-lipped smile, and pats my shoulder lightly, before he leaves. My brain refocuses into the tired vulnerability, unguarded in her.
“Don’t leave me alone.”
“You’re not alone, everyone is here,” she points out.
“They’re here for her—” I ache. I look towards the sounds of laughter and stories in the next room over. In this sea, I am alone.
“I’m here for you,” Meg says and puts both of her hands on either side of my face. I look into her eyes, a quiet shore. I feel my face pinch up like I’m going to cry and that stupid girl, throws her arms around my waist and holds me. Buries her face in my chest, so I can cry and not be watched. She holds me so tight.
Like someone who loves you holds you. Without reserve, without any awkward pause, without worry for societal rules or false conclusions. I’m stunned into accepting. When was I last hugged? Hugged like a Midwestern girl hugs? Warm and close and like two hearts are trying to reach each other through the cage of ribs between. Never.
She smells like cold air and the traces of someone smoking on a park bench, and shampoo that’s soft and flowery. I could push her away and berate her for being stupid and sentimental. But my body sinks into the warmth. Fuck, I need a hug. A real one. Does she need it as badly as I do?
I put my arms around the smallness of her. I don’t know how tightly she needs this and I know I shouldn’t care, so I just hug her like I want to hug, and she shivers and I shiver back and I feel the tears welling up between us, a great lava flow started from an earthquake. I run my hands through her hair, and hold her tragic little brain next to my heart.
“My girl,” I whisper and catch myself.
Who’s girl? Which girl?
It demands an answer and I have to decide. “She was my girl.”
The grief flies its middle finger to my stoicism and Meg is so warm and close and just so…there…that I start to cry. And I don’t know what to do, so I just let it go. She’s whispering her anguish, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry over and over like Meg was responsible for the treacherous cells or the decade long affair, or the loss of everything I thought was true. As if she was putting that on her plainly dressed shoulders.
Comfort in her warmth starts to feel like betrayal. I think she feels it too. I sniff and pull away. I’m too confused to have her so close. I’m too far into the middle of my grief, I’m bound to make poor choices. I can’t look at her in case any part of this ache is still in my eyes. She tries to look at me but I pat her shoulder like Martin patted mine. Awkwardly. Boundaries thrown up in defiance. I need to get out of this kitchen. Into a crowd where I can be unseen again. I pause and hand her a box of Kleenex before I go. I hear her sniff and pull out a couple before blowing her nose in a very…moose-like manner.
The honking of it brings the first tickle of a laugh I’ve felt in days.”
Found
when they find me
i will be alone
the questions and headshakes
directed in quizzical depths
to the loam and silt they cannot sort through
no reasoning to be caught
in bucket or screen
when they find me
dressed as animals are
in the skin i was in
the day i roared into the plain
i will shock in cold white
filled with trout breath
and minnow kisses
When they find me
broken shell
battered
lovely in purple and blue
head struck rock
knee scraped branches
lips in shades to make
mountain bluebell envious
they will lament
such wasted splendor
when they find me
the questions of why
i was lost to the brine
a jointer to the self-takers before me
whispers will static the air
of all the ways i failed
and too long loitered in futility
when they find me
they will burn the empty package
while I sneak,
soul-snake in water
down river bends to the sea
never to be found again
This Isn't a Poem for You
So this isn’t a poem for the broken hearted
it is not for those who were left behind
or ghosted
or dumped
or abused
or disregarded
This is a poem for those who watched
as another soul walked away
sat in their silence
was released from another person’s life
faced pain at their hands
or were simply ignored
into nothingness…
You are the warriors of time
you, who have felt the sting
of heart break
and disappointments
you are the carriers of grief
and the bodies made of scars
and you have lived through
every burning cut
and every lonely night
This is not for the soul they broke,
this is for the you that survived.
This is not a sermon from some high tower
that you are stronger for it
that you are braver because of it
that you are a better person
a heart bigger,
with these new and ragged cracks
to let the light in
I will only tell you what I know
You survived.
you packed up your heart and your mind
and you moved on
you accepted their silence
you treated your wounds and closed the door
you started paying attention to yourself
when they no longer did
and that carries weight
self determination
and the ability to move past
the fickle and soft-seated lies,
of a love always perched to flee
the very second things got hard
Your feet remain grounded
and you outlasted
You heart is a seasoned warrior
and it may never let another in
but it doesn’t have space anyway
because in their absence
beyond the echoes of their abuse
the pain of their mistreatment,
you’ve filled your heart
with the unfaltering love
of yourself
they can’t ever move back in
there isn’t room any more.
Sarah Reichert Author 