I can’t do it today.
The idea is to write something every day, in remembrance. The idea is to never forget. But I am torn between wanting to remember and wanting to get on with it. I worked a full shift at the cafe today, and I am tired.
One of my customers recently lost a girl. My heart goes out to him and his family. But I can’t bring myself to tell him that I know and that I care (I do). Because I’m always afraid. That my own grief will explode. And I need to be calm at work.
I am drowning myself in my martini. And waiting for my boyfriend to wake from his nap so I can have someone to talk to–about anything else.
I have not had the deep swirl into depression as last year so far. Probably because I have been planing this Vigil for months now. But now that it’s actually happening, I have run out of things to write about.
I have run out of what to say. But to remind myself, I am reprinting this, a first draft of a poem I wrote addressed to Death:
modus mortem
you took your hand to my daughter’s heart and jerked it shut
you pinned her against the bed so she could not move
you pressed your thumbs to her neck where it purpled, and her feet
your palm cupped her breath, clipped her spine
your fingers hurried to rush the traffic in her veins
you fanned them against her face, hiding yours
you twisted your knuckles into her thighs and shot her lungs
you crumpled them as she thrashed
you ripped her free of bones and then of meat
you flogged her cheeks till they crimson bled
your nails tore up hungry trails on her welted back
you thrust your wrist into, collapsed her ribs
you fisted her brow, cracked her skull
you foisted your body into her, all of it