My mother died on January 27.
Before it happened, I had an inkling, in the back of my mind, that a symbolic death would occur this year, and I thought I would be changed by it somehow—hopefully for the better.
But I never expected that my favorite parent would be gone so soon.
I received a text from my father in all caps. My mother ended up in the emergency room—the reason was unknown at the time. Even though I was sick with worry, all the worrying couldn’t have prepared me for what was about to happen.
An hour later, I learned that there was a sudden, massive bleeding in her brain, and she had to be transported by a medical helicopter to a bigger hospital with a neurosurgeon.
Later that night, I went numb with shock when I heard the doctor’s final diagnosis—that nothing could be done to save her. This can’t be happening, no, it can’t be happening right now. Not like this. I thought I had more time. I thought I would be able to spend the summer with her, just me and her, on a nice vacation that she never got to have.
Then I was shaking. I felt rage and sorrow and despair all at once. Then I collapsed with exhaustion. Why did it have to be her? Why did she have to die only four and a half years after her own parents died? It was cruel and unjust for this to happen.
Out of everyone in my family, my mother was the sweetest and gentlest soul, and she had a quirky sense of humor as well. She did not mind at all when I would talk on and on about the characters I made up as a child and all of my stuffed animals’ antics.
I even had a special nickname for her, “Mommy Mouse,” and I bought a ton of stuffed mice because they reminded me of her. She had the patience of a saint, and honestly, her gentleness and forgiving nature kept me sane and balanced out the cutting words and harshness of my father.
I am overwhelmed with the heaviness of this loss, and there are days when I feel like nothing will ever be okay, and I doubt that this will change me for the better—how is it better when she’s gone? Why did I have to lose the one person who’s known me my whole life—the one who believed in me and gently encouraged me when I kept losing hope and was proven right about many bleak things that constrain us daily?
I don’t know how long it will take for me to “return to normal”—if ever.
To cope, I wrote some poems to process these feelings of grief.
Now, More Than Ever
Now, more than ever,
I must hear the whispers of my soul
that silence every word of doubt
no matter how much I do without.
Now, more than ever,
I must find the strength alone
to walk the path that no one sees
through the wasteland of dying trees.
Now, more than ever,
I must hold these flowers close,
to build a home in endless spring
veiled by heavy mists of suffering.
Now, more than ever,
I must live in the face of death,
to compose a “now” that lasts forever,
to find hope in a falling feather.
Now, more than ever,
I must stand once again,
though I was shaken by this early grave,
there is still a life I have yet to save.
Death Has a Song
Death has a song
that I did not wish to hear,
but it reached my ear
this very year,
long and lingering,
still echoing
like the broken chords
of my mother’s last words.
Death blasts a trumpet
like a conceited fool
and pounds on the drums,
then raises his fist
to proclaim that none
shall escape him,
none shall question his rule.
He is heard all the day long
and all through the night,
though I am alive,
I must endure his torment
and I rage inside
over what he stole from me.
My mother wept
for the days she could not seize,
for the summers
she could never see,
for the seasons of peace
that were never meant to be.
She was gone too soon,
with unresolved pain
between the lines
of an unfinished story
about missed chances
and dreams that died with age.
I turned to face the world
with a blank, empty stare—
I turned to face Death
first with a stream of tears,
then with a deadly glare.
I know not how long
the ringing in my ears will last,
perhaps long into the night
and past the break of day,
but Death will not steal
the notes I write,
Death will not claim
the castle I am building
up towards the skies,
and Death will not
so callously crush
this winged heart of mine
that my mother brought to life.
Life Is a Cycle That Ends in Death
This is written with the syllables of a tanka.
Life is a cycle
that ends in death—returning
like a lone raven
in the bleakest of winters,
a premonition we miss.
Inevitable,
a darkness we cannot know,
a sky painted black,
a moon that almost blinds us
when we run far from our dreams.
Unreadable signs
are everywhere in plain sight,
the life not yet lived,
the life withheld by cruel hands—
there is no more time to wait.
Life is a cycle
that ends in death, but I will
not fill this cycle
with yet another regret—
I turn around and begin.
“It is not the end of the physical body that should worry us. Rather, our concern must be to live while we're alive—to release our inner selves from the spiritual death that comes with living behind a façade designed to conform to external definitions of who and what we are.” —Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
I am so very sorry for your loss. The loss of a parent is especially painful. Thank you for sharing your beautifully written poetry.
I am sorry about your mother 🙏 😔 but I loved your poems