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Posts tagged ‘Sorrow’

Haiku and Loku Days-Stones in My Pockets

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

Calamitous life events. During mine, I asked someone, “Does the pain ever go away?” “No,” he said. “But eventually you find a way to put it in a little box and store it away where it doesn’t hurt as much.” Another friend likened the hurt, the painful memories, to a stone in your pocket.

Stones in your pockets. You revisit each stone, taking it out, turning it over and over, looking at it from every side, scrutinizing it, analyzing it, holding on to it, holding on to the pain and then putting it back into the dark to weigh you down, you not ready to let go. Maybe you hold onto it because you feel you have nothing else to hold or hold onto.

You take it out again and  again. Each time cutting your heart on the shards of  broken illusions. But each time the edges smooth a little and then a little more until the stones of sorrow diminish, slip away, stone after stone, your life pieced as a path cobbled from those sorrows, from those stones.  The stones that had weighed you down were stepping stones, all along, to lead you to your life.

 

Stones in My Pockets

Time’s fingers reach for,
Turning over and over,
Stones in my pockets.
 
Rounding edges of
Heart shards aftermath pain path, 
Stones in my pockets.
 
Time alone softened stone
Let go echoes cobbled stones
Fall from my pockets.
 
 
 
Pebbles by West Country Photographic

Pebbles by Westcountry Photographic

 
 
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Haiku and Loku Days-Threads of Sorrow

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

As the SSB Drever and I were heading from the house toward the garage to leave for a morning walk, I looked across to see my neighbor standing in her yard. I said hello. We each walked closer to the fence to talk, I with The SSB in tow.  I sensed something was not right. As she reached the fence, instead of facing me, her body aligned with her gaze, looking far off and away, searching.

“Jo, is your mother alive?” she asked.

“No. She died a little over two years ago,” I answered.

“My mother just died.”  She paused. “Does the pain ever end?”

I paused.

“It, it gets better,” I responded, as tears welled, hers and mine.

I listened. Her words spilled out with her tears as she told of her mother’s journey of deterioration and death, of her qualities and quirks, memories of younger years. I echoed back to her my experience. We shared the emptiness that we felt with the passing of our mothers. Her mother was just past 64. Mine was three days short of 97. There never is a good age or a good time to lose your mother. We talked of people knowing it was their time to go, of the souls waiting to receive them, and of connections to the spiritual realm. She had cared for her mother those last months, weeks, days and moments. She knew her mother would be waiting for her, to care for her. It gets better.

Threads of Sorrow

Take threads of sorrow.
Weave with remembrance. Draped, soft,
Solaced tomorrows.
 
 
 
Portrait of Anna Akhmatova by Nathan Altman 1914

Portrait of Anna Akhmatova by Nathan Altman 1914

 
 
 

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