When Things Arrive To Tell You That You Are Known

All day I have my head in work. I buckle down with intention. I pull library books off the shelves by the handful. I sit down in a ragged chair at a table in the library. I turn off my wireless and stack those books up like little castles on either side of me, blocking myself in, to make myself write. Why I thought I could avoid thinking by thinking, I don't know. Especially when I take William Stafford into my hands, a poet who has arrived several times in my life to tell me things that I needed to hear--not, mind you, necessarily that I was ready to hear.

Stafford has been dead now 16 years. I wish he weren't. I could tell him thank you for this, in person. For allowing the tears I've otherwise been swallowing back into my throat before they can show from my eyes, for calling me on denying, pretending I was capable. For reminding me, gently, what it means to keep remembering a lost child--my son.

Stillborn

Where a river touches an island
under willows leaning over
I watch the waves and think of you,
    who almost lived.

Stars will rake the sky again
and time will go on, the dark, the cold.
Clouds will race when the wind begins,
    where you almost were.

But while the thunder shakes the world
and the graceful dance and the powerful win,
still faithful, still in thought, I bow,
    little one.

Comments

[annacyclopedia]

I am listening. And am filled with gratitude for your voice, and for you sharing this poem. Thank you.

[caitsmom]

Lovely poem. Thanks for posting.

[Mel]

While the poem is beautiful, this is one of the most perfect lines ever: "Why I thought I could avoid thinking by thinking, I don't know"

[Michele]

Remembering with you...

[Catherine W]

Thank you for sharing this poem. It is devastating and comforting all at once when things arrive to tell you that you are known.

[JuliaKB]

I am so very sorry about the loss of your son. It's a singular pain, and singularly lonely, for nobody else is you, and few others grieve the individual child your grieve. And yet, there are shared understandings, insights, images. Thank you for sharing this poem.

Work... I went back to work three weeks out. An achievement and stupidity equally unmatched, in my case. I didn't think I was hiding from my grief, I thought I was taking it with me. But I had to redefine a good work day as I strove for those short bursts of productivity where I could truly concentrate on what I was doing, tiny moments where my brain worked to make connections, to find an insight. My work, too, is mostly about thinking. I guess I am saying I understand.