A Poetic Share

& the Glory of Grief

The coffee shop down the street, Wake the Dead, hosts a Poetry Open Mic Night that coincides with the regular publication party of our local poetry zine, When The River Speaks.

I attended and shared this performance, and I am so grateful I did.

How wondrous it is to share space with other artists of the word, and to receive and share our vulnerable offerings together.

Upon getting home, I figured… I’d also love to share it with you. And so, here is a recording, just now made, in my little office/studio room, with the accompanying text of what I wrote this morning and put up on stage tonight.

33

"You said that twenty-three would be the best year
that ever happened to me, but I’m 23 and that’s a lie."

I’ve had this song stuck in my head for weeks.
It’s not mine, but it’s fun, and something about it resonates. 

"You said that twenty-three would be our best year
but you were messin’ with me, cause at 23 you said goodbye."

Last night I wandered to and fro on my porch 
singing this ditty, smoking a ciggy.
Having a dandy ol’ time. And then it hit me.
I’ve never been broken up with.
No Shade, just… Why is this song resonating so profoundly?
I can’t get it out of my head.

"You said that twenty-three would be the best year
that ever happened to me, but I’m 23 and that’s a lie.”

Ten years ago, I was 23.
It was 2014…
It’s been ten years
Ten years since I heard you tell me over the phone not to fly home, that you’d be fine, that the circumstances that put you in the hospital were just another thing to get through, you’d
“grin and bear it” and be better soon.
Ten years since I didn’t listen.
Ten years since I hopped on a plane and came home anyway.
Ten years since I sang you a last song.
Ten years since I held your hand, and looked into your eyes, and said,
“You’ll get to be with Grandma Fae soon.”
Ten years since your last breath on earth spiraled into your bedroom ceiling.

I can hardly believe it, Daddy. I went to sleep thinking about that space between the me you knew then and the me I am now. I woke up with the intention to share a poem today that I wrote back then, as I initially grieved. And as I read them over this morning, I could feel my youthin the words. I could feel how young and scared and lost I was.

Which is not how I feel now.
I feel… grateful.
That I ever knew you.
That I was raised by such a strong, kind, loving Father.
How lucky.
How blessed.

My tears might look the same as they did when I first lost him
but I am not the same.
I’m growing up, with a learned faith in grieving.
My grief and tears are not sent out with vitriol,
spewing across the freshly turned earth, made new for your grave
but rather, they come like rain, in a natural rhythm,
lovingly filling the abyss your absence left.
Carrying me into beloved memories.
I grab a canoe, and I paddle on.

A hui ho,

Julia Fae