Tag: grief

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Watercolor Haiku: Thistle

Today and tomorrow, I’ll be working in my late parents’ house – replacing toilet seats and ceiling fans, scrubbing hard water stains out of toilet bowls, and hauling the last things off to the dump. I bristle at some of the memories in that house, when what I need to do is thistle at them. So I’m changing my mindset from bristling to thistling…..and I may even whistle while I thistle.

It’s all part of the grief process I’ve been in for the past year with the way Dad chose to live his remaining years, still holding tight to everything he ever owned, despite our repeated requests to help him divest himself of all that was in those seven storage rooms and crammed into his house. He never considered the mess he was leaving for his children – a newlywed son who has had more to do than to want to clean up a lifetime of someone else’s memories, and me – a daughter who lives five hours north and works full time. Ah, but I digress and bristle…..let me thistle instead.

The Symbolism of Thistle

bravery and strength~

I need to thistle myself

for the coming hours

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VerseLove Day 30: Closing Invitation

The final prompt for VerseLove 2026 yesterday was a touching invitation to write, sharing what our writing space has meant this month.

Sarah Donovan has a way of weaving community together like a cherished tapestry so that each voice and thought has a place, each poet shines. And I am in awe – of her, of her poetry, of every voice in my writing community that sustains me and brings joy to all my broken places. I can’t yet write or think or feel since Wednesday afternoon, when I had to hold my beloved Fitz for his last breath and release him…..but even without that little nose nudging me awake and those sweet little eyes staring into mine with full love, I’m better for having been Fitz’s person for the time we had him.

My buddy Fitz watching for deer

Celebrating Through The Tears: A Tribute to Poets in Community

my fingers won’t write
but one thing I know: poets
write hope in the grief

my heart won’t yet beat
but this I know: poets find
pulse in lifelessness

my breath won’t calm down
but what I know: poet friends
reach in, hold hands, sit

my eyes can’t see straight
but I know this: poet friends
jump in the tear pool 

my soul has a hole
and this I know: poet friends
share theirs to fill mine

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VerseLove Day 23: Lose, Loss, Lost

Our host today for the 23rd day of VerseLove at http://www.ethicalela.com is Scott McCloskey of Michigan, who inspires us to write poems of loss. You can read his full prompt here.

Enough

here you are, slumped

next to me

in our favorite

chair and a half

your warmth on my hip

resting peacefully

Gabapentin doing its work

for your pain

Thank God your

mouth is on the armrest

with one paw

protecting it

breathing the other way

with breath so bad

it might kill a buzzard

but for your human it’s

the sign of life

of your holding on

and already I know

chances are high that

your teeth and mouth ulcers

and bladder stones

may not be all that is lost

next week

I feel tears welling just

thinking about it

you, our rescue schnauzer

with no known age or past

all things uncertain except

one thing:

we are tenderly and fiercely

bonded, imprinted, paired

as forever buddies

you are here,

you are warm and safe,

and you are loved

in this moment

now

which is

enough

for this hour

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Open Write Day 1 of 3 September 2025 with Kelsey Bigelow

Today’s host of the first day of September’s Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com is Kelsey Bigelow, who works as a mental health poet and renowned author of books, slam poetry events, and writing workshops in Iowa. You can read all about Kelsey and visit today’s prompt and poems here, as she inspires us to think about what lives on the “good side of memories.” Today’s writing is rooted in stream of consciousness writing that can live on in that form or be the start of one that takes root for another.

It’s All in the Kneading and Knowing

the happiest thing

I’ve ever tasted was that moment

when in my grief

soul-gutting tears in a

big-enough-for-all

walls of a VRBO

reverberating sniffles

and crumpled Kleenex

and happy laughs of

oblivious grandchildren playing

with their newest cousin

trying to teach him

to walk at six months

and believing he could

the strains of Amazing Grace

sung to a guitar

by the rest of us trying

to sing with the best of us

believing we could

as we all sat piled high

on the curved couch

pajama-clad, remembering

*******. ********

then one broke the silence

asking for a happier moment

in the autumn – another together

time when smiles returned

then another added

yeah, when

any of us can

make a word from tiles in

turntable Scrabble

and another added

yeah, and only if Mom

brings the pumpkin bread

and right then

in those delicate moments

I knew three things:

that I had taken the reins

as the newest family elder and

that tradition of togetherness

lives on in food tried first

as a flopped recipe

when they’re toddlers, then tested

again and again to perfection

by the time they’re teenagers

and can’t think of gatherings

without it and

that families too

are like that ~

learning to walk

learning to sing

learning to bake

learning to live on

believing

through all the tears and laughter

that together

we can

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Writing Down the Bones Card #1 of 60

The day before I turned 59, I’d just arrived at my brother and sister-in-law’s house after the five hour drive to the coast of Georgia, where I’d spent most of the summer as our father’s illness took a southward turn and he’d joined our mother in Heaven. I am blessed beyond measure that my brother and I get along so well and share a bond that is rooted in caring deeply about each other and honoring the wishes of our parents – and a sister-in-law I wouldn’t trade for the world. After my brother’s many years of waiting for his soul mate, she’s that long-awaited life partner who, while grieving her own father’s loss two months before ours, is helping steer our ship and keeping us focused on what lies ahead. Ken and Jennifer greeted me and helped me bring in my bags – the suitcase and clothes for deep cleaning Dad’s house. I’d had just enough time to hug them hello and pour a glass of Riesling before logging on to meet with a group of writing friends.

At our monthly small-group Stafford Challenge writers’ Zoom in July, my friend Barb Edler of Iowa introduced our writing topic that evening. Here we were ~ Glenda Funk in Idaho, Denise Krebs in California, Barb Edler in Iowa, and me in Georgia – connecting the state dots in a wonky square on the map but connecting squarely with each other after years of writing friendship. We know each other better than most friends who see each other day because ink is our family bloodline ~ we’re writers and readers of each others’ lives. So when Barb brought out the Writing Down the Bones Card Deck by Natalie Goldberg, she gave us a license to pour out onto the page whatever was on our minds.

The card said, “Begin with ‘I’m thinking of…’ and every time you get stuck, simply come back again to ‘I’m thinking of’ and keep going.”

We did, and we shared. I expressed how much I enjoyed those cards, and a few days later, Barb asked if she could get them for me for my birthday. Since Amazon Prime Days had rolled around, I’d already ordered them, so I confessed I’d bought the set for myself as a gift. Imagine my surprise when a few days later, a box arrived at the door. Barb knows my affinity for postcards and garden fairies, and here was a gift of sheer delight to bring joy to my spirit. I placed the fairies in the front porch plants and began coloring one of the peace-bringing adult coloring postcards designed to help regulate breathing and give the mind rest.

Today, a listish prose poem of all the things I’m thinking of……

I'm Thinking Of

I'm thinking of how my brother and I showed up at Probate Court and the one who gave us the oath noticed that we weren't like all the rest because she said our deep care for each other was visible, not like those fighting ones who get mad if the other gets more than they do ~ and I'm thinking of how I was deeply touched that she could see that my brother and I are more focused on making new memories together, us and our spouses, than quarreling over a set of dishes neither of ever intends to actually use because we'd rather be cruising around Iceland with just a carry-on bag in a pair of familiar blue jeans and worn tennis shoes than having holes in our hearts at our own tables, pouring coffee from an antique Pyrex stovetop percolator that isn't even practical and having no one to remember our lives with.  I'm thinking of how now, we're who each other has to remember all the history.  

I'm thinking of when my sister in law popped around the corner of the sofa with a birthday cake with my name on it, and she and my brother sang Happy Birthday to me, knowing full well that even spending the day cleaning Dad's house and busting our asses and being sore, there was nowhere I'd rather be that day than with them, even if we weren't out exploring the world making new memories.  Because these, too, were new memories - the cleaning and cussfests about all the stuff, all the stuff, all the random impractical collectibles and moldy books, and the sweat and grime of togetherness - this, too, is its own adventure and memory that will never be forgotten.  

I'm thinking of how my writing sisters, the three I meet with monthly and the others I call or who write in different circles with, know me better than the people I see every day because the book is always better than the movie, and with writing relationships people know exactly how you feel and what you're thinking in a way that the face to face ones just have to guess about why you raise one eyebrow from time to time or massage your right temple, never really knowing why and never even asking.  I'm thinking of how we read each other's blogs and are such an eclectic mix of personalities from vastly different walks of life with trauma, sadness, blessing, empathy, understanding, passion, and soft spots of the heart that draw us together as humans and fascinate us about our worlds, and yet how at the end of the day, we are as alike as it gets, as writers.  Just like how Maya Angelou explained us in The Human Family.  We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.  Maya knew.  She knew.  

I'm thinking of how much more there is to write about and how just this one card conjures every invitation, every memory, to want to be unfolded and to flow from brain to screen as this is happening now, right through my fingertips tapping out the rhythms of life on an Apple MacBook Air keyboard that really is the conduit to healing in all forms, this thinking and tapping and pausing for breath of thought........

And I'm wondering what others are thinking of today and whether they need a card with a prompt to invite them to share, and whether someone would call 911 if I picked a random stranger in WalMart and walked up and asked them what they were thinking of and they said they were thinking I was insane so I needed to be apprehended and taken in for questioning.  

I'm thinking of all those things and more......

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Not Enough Left

In Dad’s final days, he tells us stories. In this moment, he admits that he doesn’t have enough left. He realizes the end is very close. We assure him that we are not disappointed in him, that we are proud of him, and that we love him. While these are painful moments to relive, they help tremendously in the process of grief. I’m so grateful to have our voices of togetherness recorded so that they will always remain close and just a click away when I need them most.

Not Enough Left Nonet

no one was disappointed in Dad

when he didn’t have enough left

he’d been fighting a long time

and had lost too much strength

to go on living

we assured him

we loved him

and were

proud

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Dad’s Love for Our Mother

In Dad’s final days, he shared words about his love of our mother with us. We are grateful to have had parents who loved each other their whole lives. In this conversation and in the audio clips we share today, we find great peace. Dad knew where he was going, and he knew he would be with her when he arrived. We’re confident today that he is there and that they have been reunited. In our grief, this brings us the greatest joy!

she was the love of

his life ~ Miriam Jones Haynes ~

as he was of hers

Here, he explains how he rejoins her now.

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Visitation Day

Today would have been my parents’ 61st wedding anniversary, but instead we’ll be having a visitation for Dad on the eve of his funeral. Mom has been gone for 10 years, and Dad just wasn’t the same without her. She was the love of his life and the only person who has ever been able to help him manage in a way that made any sense. Small snippets of the past three weeks come rushing back, not as a movie in my head but as a bunch of jagged-edged memories without their proper place on a timeline.

I don’t even know what day it is, which way is up or down, or whether I’m hungry or cold. I’ve lost all sense of the hours, whether I’m up past my bedtime or sleeping at all. My clothes may match – or not. It’s that headspace without a comfort zone, where everything feels numb and you hold on, hoping your facial expressions are all performed appropriately at the right times when you’re among people. The feeling is gone. The grief has set in.

this is where I am:

in the midst of chaos, the

corner of nowhere

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Grief Numbness Haiku

Things are starting to hit home, ahead of the funeral on Saturday. Today was a partial reset, in between the day of Dad’s death and the day of the funeral. I feel like I’m just going through the motions on auto-pilot, and I remember this feeling after my mother died. There have been moments I’ve wanted to call and check on him. Then I realize – – I can’t do that anymore.

Today, my brother took Kona, Dad’s dog, to the funeral home to “explain things.” Kona checked him and sat down on his chest with the saddest look of understanding. We wanted her to know that he did not abandon her – – that he died loving her. She has a lovely new family now that will continue to take her to the dog park where she knows the dogs and people there – even though she will always look for the one who will not be returning. We gave her the unlaundered blanket, a gift from Hospice workers, that covered him on his ride from Hospice to the funeral home, and we pray it holds his scent for the rest of her days.

It’s all hitting so hard right now. I wasn’t expecting the numbness quite in this way. There will be some connecting with others who have lost fathers in the coming days. For today, I simply put one foot in front of the other and take breaths, pour coffee, and fold laundry. This is what I can do, and it brings a sense of accomplishment.

grief numbness sets in

after losing my father

is this happening???

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Thursday the 12th: Leading up to Friday the 13th

The last person to see our father alive who knew him was Nick Doster.

My brother Ken and I had been trying to keep vigil next to Dad’s bedside so that he didn’t die alone in a room, but the hospice nurse urged us to go take showers and grab an hour or so of sleep when we’d become too exhausted. Some patients look for those moments to die alone, preferring not to have loved ones near in their final moments, she’d assured us. We knew the time was close, too, because just that afternoon Dad had begun the conversations with the others not of this world, but with whom he was having undeterminable conversations and for whom he was reaching.

Nick Doster and Dad had traveled to Wrigley Field in Chicago to see the Cubs play several years back, and shared a deep love of all things sports. So it was no surprise that when Nick showed up in the remaining hours of Dad’s life with a red Georgia Bulldogs hat, Dad found strength for an appreciative smile.

Imagine our bittersweet sadness when the call came at 4 a.m. that Dad had passed. We felt the grief of the loss and the joy of the release of all pain and suffering from this earthly realm into the Heaven he preached about all his life. Now. Imagine us walking into that Hospice room to spend time prior to the funeral home coming for the body.

Take all the time you need, the hospice nurse offered.

Imagine us opening that wide door one last time and looking at the bed, only to see a bright yellow blanket embroidered with Psalm 119:76 in black stitching on one corner covering Dad’s body – the sunshine of Heaven. And imagine a face at total peace, no wires or tubes protruding, no oxygen machine droning, the red hat still on his head against the stark white of the pillow.

My brother and I agreed – – he wears the hat to Heaven. We know it will be the perfect complement to his black doctoral robe with the velvet on the sleeves and the red piping. Above all, we know it will bring smiles to those who will come for visitation to see that Dad, ever the champion of going as far as one can go with education and cheering as strong as one can cheer for the Georgia Bulldogs, can still cause a stirring of hearts.

Imagine the grief

Imagine the laughter

Imagine the joy