Elsewhere it is spring but here right on cue, the first day of autumn was cold and rainy after a sweltering summer. It fitted my mood of today.
Aimless and sad thoughts floated through my mind the past week. I wanted to write a poem for my mother but the verses were broken, even if the sentiment wasn't. Instead I read the poems I once wrote for her that she never read. All of one February - so far away and so recent - I had sat beside her and known she was slipping away, day by day, second by second. Then March came and she was no longer there and it was like her sentiments in a poem I once wrote:
"March is the sadness that I will not see
All the ways you grew."
The forward thrust of life requires us to forget. But should one? The pages of my mother's life were short and valiantly as she tried to write on it, the ink ran and little was written. As the years pass, the expression of grief recedes even if grief itself doesn't. But I never forget her even a single day, for in forgetting my mother and I would both be lost in this world.
Outside the rain falls unperturbed and the world is wet and green.
Aimless and sad thoughts floated through my mind the past week. I wanted to write a poem for my mother but the verses were broken, even if the sentiment wasn't. Instead I read the poems I once wrote for her that she never read. All of one February - so far away and so recent - I had sat beside her and known she was slipping away, day by day, second by second. Then March came and she was no longer there and it was like her sentiments in a poem I once wrote:
"March is the sadness that I will not see
All the ways you grew."
The forward thrust of life requires us to forget. But should one? The pages of my mother's life were short and valiantly as she tried to write on it, the ink ran and little was written. As the years pass, the expression of grief recedes even if grief itself doesn't. But I never forget her even a single day, for in forgetting my mother and I would both be lost in this world.
Outside the rain falls unperturbed and the world is wet and green.
"As the years pass, the expression of grief recedes even if grief itself doesn't".
ReplyDeleteThat's true...and melancholia always seems to seep in by mid-Feb (almost like clockwork).
yes it kind of creeps up.....
ReplyDelete