#19 - "Grief-Stunted Growth"
By Martha LaBine

 

I grow and I change,

but I keep some things the same,

not willing to adapt,

I leave certain memories untapped,

with your navy Grandma’s Saloon & Grill sweatshirt unwashed,

and home videos of our younger selves unwatched,

making a point to remember memories

of summer days in plastic kiddie pools

from when they took place,

and not from the contents

of a DVD case,

because if I use videos to remember,

I must admit I forgot.

The unattended grief not nurtured by others

falls on me,

and in excess I am smothered.

You grew for 63 years,

now it’s only me who will age,

and all I want

is to stay who I was.

Blissfully stagnant,

I cling to all my identifying fragments,

resistant to becoming someone new,

wanting to forever stay

the Martha you knew.

I refuse to forget

in a world that forgot,

what keeps you alive now

are the reminders that you are not.

In the evening,

I shall stay mourning,

and if holding hands with grief

is how I keep you close,

then I will grieve forever

amidst all who oppose.