Today is Tantalyzing Tuesday Teasers and a fabulous group of authors join to write a 200 word inspiration piece based on a photograph of their own choice. I stepped into the past as my niece's recent death has caused me to wax nostalgic.
My first real love as a budding 16 year old was killed in an automobile accident when I was 21 and he 24 when I was in Kansas City. My Mother didn't tell me until I returned home and he had been buried for 6 months. Anyway, I thought I would post this small remembrance I had written in 'Notes' on my Facebook page.
Stop by the TTT link above or visit the pages of my co-authors and read their inspired pieces and first, foremost, enjoy!! (And yes, that is me when I was about 18 or so....shhhhhhhhhh!)
The years that have passed have done nothing to soothe the fractured heart of a young woman, eager to fall into the arms of a lost love. Yes, time does do something, but heal it does not. Every once in awhile, like today, something casual and innocent forces the fissures of years past to reopen, lancing a dormant wound. And the passion, the desire, the loss and painful end releases into the pure, clean, comforting air of quiet acceptance. It never leaves you; it never frees you. Bound to the past by love, and pain, it never goes away. Why should it?
"At David's Grave"
My first real love as a budding 16 year old was killed in an automobile accident when I was 21 and he 24 when I was in Kansas City. My Mother didn't tell me until I returned home and he had been buried for 6 months. Anyway, I thought I would post this small remembrance I had written in 'Notes' on my Facebook page.
Stop by the TTT link above or visit the pages of my co-authors and read their inspired pieces and first, foremost, enjoy!! (And yes, that is me when I was about 18 or so....shhhhhhhhhh!)
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| David and Penny |
"At David's Grave"
for B. and H.F.
Yes, he is here in this
open field, in sunlight,among
the few young trees set out
to modify the bare facts--
he's here, but only
because we are here.
When we go, he goes with us
to be your hands that never
do violence, your eyes
that wonder, your lives
that daily praise life
by living it, by laughter.
He is never alone here,
never cold in the field of graves.
Despair
While we were visiting David’s grave
I saw at a little distance
a woman hurrying towards another grave
hands outstretched, stumbling
in her haste; who then
fell at the stone she made for
and lay sprawled upon it, sobbing,
sobbing and crying out to it.
She was neatly dressed in a pale coat
and seemed neither old nor young.
I couldn’t see her face, and my friends
seemed not to know she was there.
Not to distress them, I said nothing.
But she was not an apparition.
And when we walked
back to the car in silence
I stood stealthily back and saw she rose
and quieted herself and began slowly
to back away from the grave.
Unlike David, who lives
in our lives, it seemed
whoever she mourned dwelt
there, in the field, under stone.
It seemed the woman
believed whom she loved heard her,
heard her wailing, observed
the nakedness of her anguish,
and would not speak.
***
Denise Levertov
~“Denise Levertov Poems 1968 - 1972”
