Grief Written

 I am flipping pennies in my hotel room, Waiting on some sign or signal. I’m crying and can’t catch my breath — I did not anticipate this to be so painful. My childhood wounds are gnawing from the inside and I’m trying to settle myself. I’ve began collecting pennies both heads and tails from sidewalks, So when it lands I do not know what it means. I long for his voice on the phone, To bury my face deep in his chest. I remember sitting in his lap as he cried after he spoke on the phone with his father, The way I kissed his shoulder and hands while it was on speaker phone. Afterwards he told me, “you feel like home, you feel so safe to me.” But what does one say when home has been a word dissected and reconfigured over the years? I know there’s a lot I can say about someone reminiscent of my childhood, But I cannot stop crying after seeing her. I cannot stop. It is hard to create metaphors or motifs or even just meaning, I think I may drown.

We’re standing inside the airport near the check-in line and my father is retrieving something we forgot in the car, My grandparents are sitting while we wait and I’m distracted by a bird flitting between sky lights. I watch it with worry, without meaning, constructing a metaphor of sorts or a personification. I can hear it chirping and I wonder aloud whether there is a position of some kind within the airport to guide it back into the sky. My grandparents do not notice my question, I do not fault them with this because I can speak softly and as a middle child I have grown accustomed to dialogue with myself. Later, When we’ve settled for breakfast before the flight I notice a second bird and I wonder to myself how many are required for a motif. I cannot ascertain what species it may be so the further meaning alludes me. When my grandmother noticed this bird I express my worry once more, “It must be able to find its way out,” she reassures.  “I don’t think so, it must be so confused wit

 In this version, The man I love brushes his teeth over the sink with me and we take turns spitting, laughing each time our eyes meet in the mirror. I am not worried about the longevity of my toothbrush on his bathroom counter, It’ll be replaced every six months after each dentist appointment —I do not cancel it because we are not arguing in the driveway. While I peel it out of the packaging I make him guess the color while simultaneously asking, “how often are we supposed to replace these actually?” He is not annoyed with my game and puts thought into the answer, listing off all the previous colors that have spotlighted on his bathroom counter. And before I can pause peeling the toothbrush out of the package, he has reached for his phone to google my question.  In this version, I  am not surprised that he has anticipated a need from me.  There are sticky notes stuck to the mirror with my handwriting from several days before, he does not take them down until they lose their stickiness

 I find myself reaching  For hands  For hope For the words I’ve been meaning to convey  And all I find is widespread nothingness.