I know nothing about love,
Its chemistry, its molecular
Substrata, I know only the
Feelings of joy that linger
In its shadow, in its aura, in
The smile, and in the soul.
I know nothing of its physics,
Its reasoning, its intricate
Deliberations. I know only
My joy at your touch, a joy
That lingered through the
Years when the physicality
Of love-making vanished as
If vaporized by the changes
In your mind and body. I know
That love stayed in your heart.
I know it remains in mine.
Is it possible that someone
More capable than I will bake
Or,
Take the recipe I share among
My friends to remaster, make
Again my mother's famous
Cake, the one we defrosted a
Year after her passing, and
Passed among our friends who
Gathered to witness the year
Anniversary of her death? The
Cake one of her many gifts
By which we could remember
Her then. The famous cake,
Made with a flour ground from
Nuts, walnuts but we, actually
She, substituted almonds to
Make the roulade and a rich
Sweet frosting, rich and sweet
As was she. A flourless cake
She baked before every high-
Minded pastry chef in our
County offered one up on a
Dessert menu that topped a
Pricey tasting menu, elegant
As was she.
Living this close to its majestic
Frame, you notice how its clad,
Determine its mood, you'd clap
When it was near ready, dressed
For its opening day in blue and
White, the stage set for summer
Fun. You'd notice this every year
In May, readying for the June
Season. Today, in the windy chill,
Its crisp appearance, wearing a
Light blue pinafore, beckoning
Warmth, is refreshing.
The morning light entices me.
Is it later or earlier than I can
Ever anticipate it to be? This
Morning I am awakened by
It's early appearance.Shouldn't
I know if it is just dawning or if
It has been bright for hours or
If it is just first light? Shouldn't
I know just by the quality of the
Day as it peaks into my room
What time it really is?
A siren cries in the night
It coaxed me, but not out
Of my dreams, or perhaps
Into an awakening reverie
In the night, wondering why
Sirens are so much louder
At noon. At noon, they wail
As if having a tantrum as
Traffic blocks their path, or I
Remind myself, it's cars that
Carry the siren so it's cars
Crying in the night then it's
Cars wailing at noon
There is nothing ambiguous about
Your grief, the ambiguity is external.
Your grief and mine is a feeling in
Real time. Have no doubts, we are
Not bound by the appearances, the
Optics of our situation. Our loss is
Ever-present. We are not foreseeing
The grief we see, the loss we know
This is not what anticipation looks
Like, except to the outside observer.
Ambiguity and anticipation do not
Define these moments when there
Is loss and grief over that loss. I am
Losing him, moment by moment. He
Is here, that is the appearance and yes
It is true. There will be so much more
To grieve before this ambiguous grief
Is done.
Musical notes, so faint I
Thought I was dreaming,
The light, the music, form
A tapestry of sensations.
It is insistent and it is time
To get up to enjoy the day
That the light and sound
Promises
I miss his touch
Let me make that
More personal, I
Miss your touch
I feel your presence
All around me all
The time but I don't
Feel your hand on
Mine. Your caress
Thrilled me even, when
Weakened, your
Body could not. I
Miss so much of
You, who thrilled
Me, even when lost
Or confused, you
Could not find me
Although I was there
Standing vigil by
Your side, no longer
Lying in your arms
Where I knew I
Belonged and long
Now to be. To be
With you, to be
Yours. To be touched
By you, and held
And comforted
I miss your touch.
I miss you. I know
You know that.
That's a comfort, but
Still, I miss your touch
They see the devil in their desires
The serpent lurks, swallowing at
Their humanity, strangling their
Natural impulses and sometimes
Their basic needs. It's a version of
The devil made me do it that is so
Deadly serious that it makes good
Men murderous in defense of their
Piety, thinking that that sin is less
An offense to their God than the
One their hearts and bodies desire
Our passion is shared and
Divided up by memory into
Little bits of what once was.
Remembered, stored away
For safekeeping, it lives as
It once did but hazy as faded
Pictures in a sundrenched
Album. Not as safely kept as
Our treasured love once was.
We would not have let the
Edges curl or the color drain.
Pleasures once tangible now
Are distant, and dreamlike,
Played out in the flashes of
Uncertain memory, slipping
Out of focus, but sweet and
Clear.
Tamara, really