I wrote this last year, a week after my father died.
Empty Cup
I set down my cup, pour
tea and think this day, too,
may never end.
With what do we quantify love? How does grief measure us? Nine days ago I wrote “My father is dying and I’m sipping a beer.” More words followed, but I did not write them, choosing instead to let them gather where they would – among the darkening fringe at light’s edge, in that space between the shakuhachi’s notes, in the fragrance of spices toasting in the skillet. In unwept tears. Everywhere. Nowhere.
Seven days ago I wrote “My father is dead.” Again, I chose to let the unwritten words gather and linger, allowing them to spread in their own time, attaching themselves to one another, long chains of emptiness dragging through the days.
If experience reflects truth, sorrow’s scroll will unravel slowly for me, and will never stop. I feel it beginning to quiver, but only the tiniest edge emerges. I am nothing, I say. I am voice, I am loss, I am name. I am memory. I am son.
I have fifty-nine years
and no wisdom to show for it.
Never enough. Too much.
* * *
My father died one year ago today. We miss you, Dad.
Sorrow’s scroll does indeed roll on. God bless.
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Thanks very much, Lee. It does.
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My condolences to you. I’ve lost both of my parents and sometimes the weight of that thought is too heavy, and I don’t write down my feelings, and I just go on. And like you said, “I let the unwritten words gather and linger” until something I see sparks a memory of my past. Or a conversation with my sister, about something I remember, and she didn’t experience it the same way. Our memories are precious, but I learned we don’t always remember things exactly as they happened. But instead we record our feelings. The way someone made us feel is more important than an actual event. I don’t think we ever forget that. May you process your loss, in your own time, and perhaps with someone who also knew your Dad, and you can put those feelings into words. God bless.
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Thanks very much, Linda. For me, grief is a lengthy process. I’ve learned to let it unwind at its own pace.
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Bob, can sadness and strength travel a shared dimension? Thanks for this post.
~ Clyde Long via mobile device ~
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I think they do, Clyde.
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The unraveling of that scroll reflects the strength of all that it holds.
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It does indeed, Ken. Thanks.
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i think it is always unfolding, never goes away, always ebbing and flowing in waves. i’m sorry
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Thank you, Beth. And how could we want it any other way? To feel is to live!
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Exactly
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Grief comes in waves. And will probably send some waves for the rest of your life. Poetry is a great way to be with grief. Blessings to you.
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Thanks very much, Sabra.
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Reblogged this on On My Feet and commented:
Another wonderful post of written and unwritten words from Robert Okaji…
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Thanks for reblogging, Grove. Much appreciated.
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You filled my cup with this sensitive and oh-so-honest poem. Thank you.
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Thank you, Joan.
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Wisdom in your reflection: “this day, too, may never end.” The day being so much more than hours ticking past on a clock. A day of death integrated by the one grieving surfaces unpredictably. I find grief readily available if I go inward, seeking it; when I don’t do that frequently enough (whatever that formula might be!) grief surfaces with a rush, demanding attention. I embody four of these eternal days (so far). Thank you for words that acknowledge grief as on-going presence. This one’s a keeper.
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I don’t know how to measure grief – it simply exists, fluctuating in no discernible pattern.
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So very sorry for your loss.
“Empty Cup” is open and honest and vulnerable.
It is all the reasons that poetry will never die.
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Thank you, Sarah. Much appreciated.
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love to you
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Thank you very much, Maureen.
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What is sorrow? What is its essential nature? If there is anything like a definitive meaning, this poem has probably captured it. Nice work… and cute picture of you! 😉
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Thanks, Daniel. I was 4 or 5 in that photo. I’d like to say that I have retained that cuteness, but…
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You, like all other “mixies,” look fantastic, retaining the best features of each parent: your father’s Germanic cheek bones, your mother’s keen Japanese eyes…they have stayed with you as you transitioned from a boy to a man, improving and refining with age. I guess not all of us are as lucky as to have had Japanese genetics working behind our scenes!
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Ha! I’m pleased to have been blessed with features from both parents.
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I am so sorry for your loss. Losing a parent is quite hard, I know. I have lost my father also. Eight years ago. But it is just as fresh today as then. Still adjusting to the new norm. God is my anchor.
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Thank you. My mom’s loss still rings on, some 13 years after.
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An excellent, spare and most telling, tribute
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Thanks very much, Derrick.
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It never stops (un)rolling. Never. The wordless in your words. (K)
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I don’t expect it to, Kerfe. I don’t think I’d want it to stop.
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very honest words. !!!
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Thanks very much.
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So sorry for your loss, Robert!
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Thank you, Temy. Much appreciated.
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It’s sad to lose a father. I lost mine in 97 from a cardiac arrest, but I still miss him. I love your poetry by the way. Thanks for reading my story, Rootbound.
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Thank you! I was grateful to have my dad around for as long as I did.
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