The image of you has softened over time
I see you, prostrate, as if through film star soft-focus
Still, at last, still, forever
and yet if I push myself through that ghost-laden portal
I know that you have taken on a different form
you are transformed into no more than
Ash
Dispersed on the winds
I breathe you in
You become part of me in more than the accepted ways, Dad
Your death doesn’t hurt in the way it once did
No longer lacerates, no longer eviscerates
Stigmata
But I am left behind
But I am in sorrow for the missed opportunities
But I am swallowed by regret that I
can never have that conversation
Never explain that I understand you better
Never confess that I judged you too harshly
Never reveal that there is so much more of you in me
than I ever cared to admit or wanted then
Never tell you that I welcome that
Now
But, at least, the knife-edge cicatrix
of the loss of you has faded
I can smile at the thought of you
because I think of you
Often
This was inspired by the prompt found over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where we are encouraged to write about something that is both harrowing, and hallowed. A challenging prompt, for sure, but it helps to write about these things, to transfer the ever-whirling thoughts to print, at least for a while.
Why not pop on over to the Real Toads blog, and take a look, take part?
Freya Writes... 
Oh this reminds you of the poetry you wrote just after your father had died, and it feels good that you can cope without forgetting.
PS. Your link at toads is not correct… You better link up again.
Thank you, Bjorn, for remembering. Yes, it’s a blessed transition.
And thank you for letting my know about my incorrect link!
So many things are lost to death, not just the people who are taken from us… but the living we could’ve done, if they were still breathing our same air.
‘the living we could have done’
Yes, that encapsulates it perfectly. Thank you for reading.
How we absorb the lost and make them our own in a way that we cannot do while they live is a mystery worthy of exploring, indeed–this lifts the devastation of emotion to intellect, yet not in a cold way, but with a deep pulse of the heart, just as we pump that same warm blood to our brain to keep ourselves alive. My pleasure to read.
It is fascinating that following death, the people change, or at least our perception of them do. Thank you for reading.
This describes so well the different regrets and stages that are involved in grieving! Very good!
Thank you so much. It’s taken me a while to express and address the last part to be honest. I would give so much to be able to tell him those things, but at least admitting them to myself is the next best thing.
Yes. I lost mine at the age of 12, I am now 57 and I still miss the opportunities; the moments that could have been but there is the “next best…” Beautiful write!
That’s so very young to lose a parent – I’m so sorry. it never goes away, does it? Thank you again.
No it doesn’t. Thank you!
This poem is breathing from such an honest place. A gift.
This speaks to me:
” there is so much more of you in me
than I ever cared to admit or wanted then
Never tell you that I welcome that
Now”
Thank you.
Thank you so much for reading and commenting – I’m so glad it spoke to you.
Harrowing and so truthful. These hard things in a death. Really beautiful rendered, and so wonderfully honest. Thanks. k.
Thank you so much.
I can very much relate to this! Glad you have arrived at thinking warmly and often.
Thank you – I’m glad it connected with you.
You nailed the essence of harrowing which becomes hallowed — how many letters I have written to my dead brother, enquiring, entreating, grieving, letting go — letting the dead die with the proper ceremony of funeral letter, written I suppose until what’s within is as pale as the ash that was scattered. The “knife-edge cicatrix” is the harrow, the blunt raw instrument which is like a sword that becomes a plowshare. Amen.
Thank you, Brendan. I found the only way to ‘get through’ was to write it out. It’s still a work in progress. I am sorry for your loss.