These spirits are absence.
The spirit of grief lingers with me, through time and space, not easily described or grasped. It aches, sometimes desperately and violently, until I can feel no more. We live together in a space barely explored. Where words are deprived of their meaning. When the violence of metaphor barely explains what it is like to live here in this.
Anxious, trouble, troubled, but only after the fact. In the excruciating now — would be too much for her to handle. I would be too much in overwhelm. Fearing she would encroach upon my space — my anxiety — to handle. To throw pills and magic words at an illusory condition. To will myself here and have my mind wander anyway. To accept myself as I am. But you need me to be better — but that’s not myself.
I have so many metaphors to describe these lingering spirits of worry and overwhelm — as they loop and surpass I and then. I lose myself in imagery, trying to describe what outsiders cannot feel. These ghosts of what was and is. How I grieve for what never was. As I become myself, the violence of words plagues me — as anger and unintended cruelty visit me in yet another form.
A brain against itself cannot stand; but it can breathe, sit, be with the moments I wish away; on floors of clean, well-lit spaces, as I wonder if I’ll always be here. Clinical language cannot describe this viscera. It just is. I sit with my worries and unsteadiness until I safely return. Sometimes after the flood of words and the torment of shame relents.
I sit here waiting and hope is here too; a ghost of memory reminds me why I cannot pray to far away or up close. I was abandoned unto this. So here we sit with a community of ideas and bodies. Of an after this, when we live here.
Grief is like a boomerang, distant storm clouds that shake bodies into memory, into being together in the inexplicable nothing. In the why would God; why do we still believe in anything; when it breaks so easily. My words go into air as I grieve for an idea that becomes being. Here in this place; fitting; belonging.
I was talking to a ghost. A paternal who never was; could never be, as grief cycled through generations of men and abandoned us here in the echoing silences — between the floods of angry words. Here we are after the storm. It is too quiet. Can’t they hear the distant thunder? See the cracked earth? The dead leaves — crumpled under feet as earthworms turn to soil.
In the post-conflict of grief, I sit and sing and be with a figure I’ve never known well — a jello-molded god of what was not. Can I be disappointed in non-existent, maybe is imaginings? Is it easier to find a ghost than to implicate absence? I’m angry with an idea, but today we sit with a grief I share, but never knew myself.
You hurt, I cry. As you speak of a kind man I never knew. I wish I did. Mine leaves me vaguely written well-wishes. Any more contact beyond these ghosts would hurt me too much.
Sometimes i don’t believe my own phantom pains. Wondering what could have been, if they, if I… But these what might be’s are only ghosts. And I am here with aching grief — inserting hope into a pain I am only beginning to explore. These wounds are deeper than I know.
I wait to be minimized. For a proclaimation of not enough pain to count. But ghosts don’t care. They linger and remember the was and is. As I hope for what will be after the violence of memory.