I wrote this two years ago, a week after my father died. Many of us are mourning today, with more to follow. COVID-19 doesn’t care.
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.
* * *
Peace, Robert. I hope you’re able to get through this day and others ahead as best as you can.
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Thanks, Tre. We’re all doing the best we can.
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You’re welcome. *sighs* And you’re right about that.
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This touches my heart. I can relate but not say it as well. My prayers.
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Thanks very much, Barbara.
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As moving as when I first read it. Love and light to you, Bob.
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Thanks, Lynne. Today is a good day – the sun is shining, the temperature is in the 60s, and I’m with people I love.
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Sounds like you’re making the most of it – excellent!🤗
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The company helps!
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My condolences on the loss of your father and thank you for sharing these wonderful words.
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Thank you very much for reading this. Much appreciated.
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I am touched by this. To be a son (or daughter) continues beyond the lifespan of parents. But their deaths transform in ways that show up over time.
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So I have discovered over the past dozen years or so. The grief lessens, or at the very least, morphs into something different.
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sending hugs.
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Thank you, Barbara.
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beautifully written!
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Thanks very much, Christina.
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Like your empty cup! It shows wisdom beyond its years!
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Thanks very much, John.
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