December 2018
Note: My shock over the murders at Tree of Life was intensified by two factors--my own personal connections as a by-birth Pittsburgher who walked by Tree of Life on her way home from school and as a person who has experienced sudden loss. In my case, the loss was our son, Joe. Immediately my heart seized up for the families of those who died--yes, for a few days, everyone will share their grief But the grief felt by those who love the fallen will continue. So, I am sharing this poem, written after our son passed on ahead of us. May his memory be a blessing. May the memory of the eleven be a blessing. May we often speak their names.
STAGES OF GRIEF
The first week
My world is spinning
"That's nothing, the world always spins,"
they tell me.
"They" always know best.
Their world is fixed
on its axis, firm and sure
Mine has lost its axis,
whirling and twirling
out into space,
out of control.
I am oblivious to all but my loss.
Three months after
I am quiet
when I used to laugh
Sad
when I used to be pensive
Still awake
Late into the night
Talking to a picture,
Instead of
Chatting with my son.
Angry he has left us,
Bereft.
After a year
Words begin
to make sense again
when I lay them out on paper.
I have forgiven my dear son
for leaving us, although
my heart still clenches at
when I think I see him somewhere.
His things are packed.
Some given away.
Little bits of rock
and shell and more,
festoon the shelf
by his photo—
Offerings to show I'm thinking
of him on beach walks
forest treks or in new cities.
I hang his stocking up at Christmas
and fill it with a letter.
One plus one
Makes 11.
Two years later, I
remember
this joke between us,
we two who hated math.
I unpack his journals.
It's time to write about him,
and share his thoughts
with the world.
I am compelled to
speak his name,
loudly and
in print
wherever possible,
So he will never
be forgotten.
Never.
Joe.
STAGES OF GRIEF
The first week
My world is spinning
"That's nothing, the world always spins,"
they tell me.
"They" always know best.
Their world is fixed
on its axis, firm and sure
Mine has lost its axis,
whirling and twirling
out into space,
out of control.
I am oblivious to all but my loss.
Three months after
I am quiet
when I used to laugh
Sad
when I used to be pensive
Still awake
Late into the night
Talking to a picture,
Instead of
Chatting with my son.
Angry he has left us,
Bereft.
After a year
Words begin
to make sense again
when I lay them out on paper.
I have forgiven my dear son
for leaving us, although
my heart still clenches at
when I think I see him somewhere.
His things are packed.
Some given away.
Little bits of rock
and shell and more,
festoon the shelf
by his photo—
Offerings to show I'm thinking
of him on beach walks
forest treks or in new cities.
I hang his stocking up at Christmas
and fill it with a letter.
One plus one
Makes 11.
Two years later, I
remember
this joke between us,
we two who hated math.
I unpack his journals.
It's time to write about him,
and share his thoughts
with the world.
I am compelled to
speak his name,
loudly and
in print
wherever possible,
So he will never
be forgotten.
Never.
Joe.
First published in online mag, When Women Waken in 2014, written for my son, but resurrected for all sons, especially for those who died at Tree of Life. I used to walk by there on my way home from school. My best friend belonged there.
© 2018 Joan Leotta