Poem

He, W.O Mitchell, said to write whatever surfaced to my consciousness, unconsciously

All I can think about is my…

I went swinging yesterday. A grown woman swinging in the snow, in February.
They must have thought I was drunk. Perhaps I am, but not with love or happiness.

There was a deer watching us.

That was the day after I head the worst news. Of my life sounds dramatic, but I think it was. We had already named him, it, we shouldn’t have- it was too soon, but we did. And we loved (love) him or her. Arms, legs, organs, head- but I guess there was something wrong with his head and that’s why

Oh God I don’t want to argue about whether hell exists or if it’s nothing or eternal conscious torment, because all I want- need to know is if you will hold my baby when he cries in heaven. Please take good care of him until we can meet him finally. I know you’ll do better than we could, but I guess we never got the chance.

The thought that never leaves, maybe it will one day, and I hate the thought, but I have to write it down or else it will kill me- no it won’t- my depression never turns suicidal- death makes me want life more and more, not death. But the thought that never leaves, is too horrible to inflict on anybody else. I can’t write it, but you need to know how hard it is to flush the toilet.

I love you. And I’m sorry, and sad. I know it isn’t my fault- this kind of thing happens, and heaven is a better place for my baby than earth- or else God wouldn’t have taken her there. Grief is really very selfish. I’m crying for the future I had built up with you. I didn’t mean to put pressure on you that way. I loved (love) you so much already. Maybe one day.

I’m sorry- so sorry, and I love you.
February 23, 2007