–There is no grief like the grief that does not speak—–Henry Wordsworth Longfellow
Lovely K. Marie. My best friend.
DAY ONE: Women are such nurturers.
They all want to wrap their arms around you and take the boo-boo away. They want to give you advice and make you okay. They want to soothe you, hold you, and bandage you up.
I love them for that. I love love love them for that.
But to be quite honest, the pain is still there…and MY sister is not.
She is not. She is not. Damn it damn it damn damnit damn fuck
… intellectually and logically I understand: “Life goes on…God has a purpose…Time heals…She’s free….She’s liberated…Man must Live.
I get it. I fucking get it. Seriously, I’m not totally insane.
But I’m alone. I’m half. I’m partially here.
At least, that’s what it feels like some days. That’s what it feels like without a sister.
Who can I whisper my secrets to? Who will ever love me like that?
DAY TWO: Prose has always saved me.
Poetry has always consoled me.
Nabokov. Li-Young Lee. Oliver. Plath. Nin. Michaels. Adhiambo. Berg. Kafka. Lamott. Dickenson. Goldberg. Frost. Keats. Gluck. Minot. Bissell. Sexton.
How can I ever compensate all of you for your luxurious, liquid language?
How can I ever thank you for sublime syllables which, for me, have become words with willowy wings?
DAY THREE: It’s been 9 months, 1 week, and 3 days since Kay’s murder.
Susie, K, & Kim
It’s been an infinity.
It’s been a split second in time.
Sometimes I forget her voice. That voice like sugar flowing out. That voice that repeatedly said– “Kimmie, I love you. I love you. I love you”
It’s been Hell on Earth if you want the truth. It’s been shadowy & shitty.
Yeah, I’m still not sure how to live without complete light.
DAY FOUR: I tell the same stories over and over again. (Right, Tia?)
…And they all end in the same way, with the same damn conclusion.
My sister is dead, dead, dead.
I observed the flames, but stood and watched.
I saw the warning signs, but held out my hand to the abuser.
I became part of the dysfunction
….like a lobster on slow simmer; like a idealist awaiting change.
He never changed. Never changed.
Why did I do that?
I should have broken his legs so he couldn’t walk…broken his fingers so he couldn’t pick up a gun.
DAY FIVE: Still Waters & Distractions.
It’s appears that food, especially when combined with beautiful description & decadence, brings me into another breadth, another veracity.
Frosting. Simmering. Cutting. Boiling. Creating.
The sweet scent of pretty pink and billowy brown and wintry white.
Escapism. A break from reality.
I had to go all the way to Australia find my latest obsession and favorite blog: Not Quite Nigella
DAY SIX: Saint Shirley feeds us with chocolate cake, chocolate chip cookies &
hot cinnamon rolls.
This is her poetry. This is her art.
She is the epitome of “Mother.”
She is the essence of “Seraph.”
DAY SEVEN: I know something.
I know that God would not leave me here without Kay for a damn good reason.
Tell me your reason, GOD. Tell me why you’d leave me unaccompanied by my best friend. Trapped inside this outrageous universe.
Must I fall on my knees all day long? Must I cry out to you in the darkness?
By the way, I never stopped believing…I only stopped hoping that things would remain unchanged.My best friend was Murdered on May 26, 2010 by Mike Peterson. The world darkenened. The universe weighs less. So much less.
For support and more information please call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or at TTY 1-800-787-3224.
click here NOW >http://www.thehotline.org/get-help/help-in-your-area/