It’s like washing my hands in the winter
this grief of mine.
I turn on the faucet marked hot
and the water is always cold.
It’s always the same.
Wait patiently for the warmth
to take away the cold pain;
the water stays cold,
sometimes even gets colder.
I fill my hands with foam,
rub them briskly,
sing happy birthday to myself,
rinse in the clear, cold water,
long for the warmth.
In what seems like forever winter
I turn on the faucet,
the one with the red H,
and it’s always cold.
John A. Bayerl, April 28, 2011
Today as I was washing my hands at the gym I remembered this poem that I posted almost a year ago. It describes what today has been like for me. One of those days when just a little warmth would be so nice. So, when I got home I made a big kettle of chicken noodle soup. That always helps.
This morning I renewed my relationship with Dave, my golf instructor. He has a way of saying things about golf that are instantly applicable to life. This morning he had this to offer: "It's easier to improve parts of your game where you are really awful than it is to make things you're already pretty good at better." I'll have to think about what part of my life sucks the most and then figure out a way to make it less sucky. Is sucky a word? It is now; What sucks most about my life is not having Gwen with me. Back to that conundrum about filling a giant hole in my life with something of substance when all these ghostly memories insist on filling it.
Each night I take the time to count my blessings, and I always realize how fortunate I am compared to many, many people who grieve the loss of a spouse Four children and three grandchildren who have Gwen's imprint on them, and are always there for me. Sisters and brothers, mine and Gwen's and their families who cared deeply about how I am doing. Friends here in Ann Arbor and also literally around the country and the world who offer me support and love. A faith community that provides genuine and constant meaning to my life. Then, it's onto areas where I need to improve. . .
The poem about cold water, Dear, reminds me of all the times I would help you bathe, and I tried always to be sure that the water temperature was just right. Even on our last night together.
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Comments
~R~
Be well, John.