Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Day 213: Hear Me Out, That Which You Call Death

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. The first two lines are borrowed from "The Wild Iris" by Louise Gluck.

September 29, 2014

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Doors installation by Chan Hwee Chong.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door.
You could not come with me. The You of My Words
with your palms flat on my face and your lips on
the tip of my nose. You could not come with me.
My love person, with your head on my chest and
arms wrapped around my sides. I remember. I was there, too.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Look! It is my heartbeat! I was speaking to you.
I'm right here, babe. I heard you tell me. I will
not leave you. I heard you speak. Your parents are
coming, babe. They will be here soon. I heard you
speaking to me. Please forgive me. I am so sorry.
I heard you speak. Your sweet, calming voice washed
over me as it always had. I heard you and I spoke back
in the beating of my heart. 111. 111. 111. It was me, babe.
I was speaking back to you. Did you hear me?

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Caleb. Mina. Paige. Beth. John. I remember. I was there.
They pulled you from me, babe. I remember. You did not
want to leave. I felt it, your heartbreak. Your hurt. I climbed
into your cage of ribs. Did you feel me then? I climbed
right into your cage of ribs and tried to comfort you.
My love person. My sweetheart. I had always wanted
to break free and inhabit the same cage of ribs as yours.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Oh, Mum. Oh, Dad. Scott. I am so sorry. What trouble
I've been. This is not your fault. You are not at fault. You
must never reproach yourself. I remember. I was there, too.
I felt your hands on my leg. I heard you speaking. My bear!
Scotty, my bear! You remembered. My bear. My childhood
bear made the long flight with you. I know how you tried to
comfort me. Could you feel me trying to comfort you, too?

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
I remember seeing the love in that room. Around my bed. Surging
through you, through me, through each other. You could not see
it, but with eyes swollen shut and yet eyes wide open I could see
it all. Swirling colors. Glowing sparks. You were each lit in love.
All that you touched- my legs, my face, my hair, my hands-
remained covered in this phosphorescent love. It warmed me.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door. You could not
come with me. You're going to have to do this alone, babe.
You told me. And I remember. You can do this. We're here.
Everyone's here. And it's ok. You can do this. You opened
the door, the door through which I had to go alone, you
opened it and stepped back. You could not come with me.

Hear me out: this was the end of my suffering. And the
beginning of yours. Hear me out: I am not far. And your
suffering will end. Hear me out, my love. My love person.
The You of My Words. Place your head and hand to this door
as you did to my chest. Are you there? Are you in there, babe?
I heard you there in my hospital bed.  I heard you begging for
a response. Please don't confuse my stillness with my absence.

At the end of my suffering there was a door. I walked through
alone, as I was asked. As I needed to do. I had to walk through
it alone. Go to it. Go right up to it. Place your hand and your head
against it and be still. Listen. Listen for me. Just when you think I
cannot hear you, hear me out: I am there. On the other side. I am there.






Day 212: I Remember Those Robes

I'm taking part in a 30-day grief writing course. This is day 21. Write about something I remember. Pick one thing and go.

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September 28, 2014



I remember those robes. Those ridiculous robes. Not at all silk. More like Grandma's very outdated curtains. Highly flammable, I'm sure. We find them hanging on sturdy wooden hangers at the first ever motel we stay in together. We decide to take a trip to Gwangju, about a 1.5 hour drive from Hadong. We each have friends to visit, and an overnight trip away seems like fun. 


We meet your friend and two Korean friends of his. Women. (How did you know him? I can't recall. He was tall. Bald. Handsome face.) We have tacos and later tea at a tea house with them. Our tea comes in different cups accompanied by a little wooden animal on the saucer. We are not allowed to take them home.

Your tea is fruity, and the waitress explains it "makes man's pee powerful." Traditional story states that some very important man drank this same tea, and the next morning he broke his chamber pot with the sheer force of his urine stream. Whoa. I can't wait to hear the goings on of you using the bathroom the next morning. It proves...uneventful. Porcelain spared. Liars.

After tea we dance in the alley on the way back to the car, and later you write a poem about it. You ask the Korean women what one calls one's sweetheart, and we are delighted to learn the direct translation: "love person." We start calling each other "love person." This is in your poem. 

It is well into the evening when we reach our car, and we realize we haven't a clue where to stay for the night. One of the women offers to ride with us and take us to a place nearby- "Evergreen Motel." It is cheap, she says, about 45,000 won for the night.

A modest place along the river and close to downtown, Evergreen Motel is fairly typical of any inexpensive "love motel" sprouting up all over the country. Nothing feels too shady about checking in at the little window, but we do receive a plastic zippered kit with all the amenities: razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, hair bands, and 2 condoms. A welcome gift, if you will.

The room feels like a throwback to a 1960s movie set. Shiny wallpaper, heavy gold brocade bedspread, dark wood paneling. The smell of cigarette smoke and stale laundry. And those robes.

Mine is in the rose-family of colors. Yours is dusty blue. The performers in us are in those robes and taking ridiculous photographs before our bags hit the floor.

"Oooh! Mine has a sash! Does yours have a sash?" I yelp.

"Does mine have a sash? Look at this exquisite knot I've tied!"

"That is impressive! Did you learn that in boy scouts?"

"I learned THIS in boy scouts!" And you proceed to make a ridiculous pose- left foot on the bed, left elbow on your left knee, eyebrows raised, right hand on your hip.

"Oh! That's fantastic! I learned THIS from my GRANDMA!" And I make an equally ridiculous pose, meant to be so unsexily-sexy that our attraction parts would recoil. I can't quite recall the exact pose, but it involved a doorway.

"Oh! Let's take a portrait!" I suggest.

"YES. Great idea."

The camera is set up on the counter, just above the tiny fridge with the two cold cans of orange juice and the one large bottle of water. (provided) My robe makes hideous swishing sounds as I run from the camera to the bed where you are already sitting in a noble pose, leaning on your left thigh, right hand on your knee. I jump up and kneel at your side, placing my chin on your left shoulder.

"These robes are so SHINEEEEEEE!" I mumble through my camera-grin. Click. I run to the camera and hit the button again. Flip on the lights. Swish. Swish. Swish. Hop on the bed. Click. Perhaps the cheesiest faces we are able to make.

"Who has fun doing things like this?" you ask. 

"We do!" I grab your face with both hands and plant a big one on the side of your head.

"Let's do a standing pose. A really bad one," you suggest. 

"Oh! Let's!"

I hop off to set the camera up again and you swat me on my backside. "Hey, you!" I yell. I hit the button on the camera again and leap over to where you are. Like we had been practicing for days to be on the cover of an appalling romance novel, we slide instantly into place, your left hand behind my neck, right hand around my waist. I'm looking up for a kiss, but you're looking at the camera like, "Oh, yeah...I am a sexy man and this is what sexy men do!" Click.


This is the one that almost makes us pee our pants laughing. Who has fun like this? We do. You. Me. Those ridiculous robes. That smoky motel room. That harsh lighting.

I remember it. I remember all of it. I remember what it was to have incredible fun with you. To recognize the children in each other and not be afraid to play. To recognize the adult in one another and not be afraid to love deeply.

I remember this. I remember you.















Monday, September 29, 2014

Day 211: The Day I Forget To Count

September 27, 2014

I'm taking part in a 30-day grief writing course. This is day 20.

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"Giving Up is Not an Option" by German artist Ole Ukena, 2012.


The Day I Forget to Count

I am afraid to stop counting.
The days since you fell from that window. (210)
The days since you died. (207)
The days since I last hugged your parents. (203)

I’m afraid to stop counting.
The number of poems you wrote for me. (88)
The hikes we went on. (6)
The trips we took to Geoje Island. (2)

I’m afraid to stop counting.
The t-shirts I still have of yours. (4)
The times we skyped with your friends and family. (3)
The watches you got me as presents. (3).

Why count what you imagine to be limitless?
The number of times we kissed.
The nights we spent walking.
The beats of your heart.

I didn’t know they needed counting.
I didn’t know the number was finite.
I am afraid to stop counting.

I am afraid you’ll disappear. 


Sunday, September 28, 2014

Day 210: What I Want to Forget

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. In the last post, I addressed What do I want to remember? Today I finally feel ready to write about What do I want to forget? 

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The things I want to forget are scattered across
the terrain of my interior self like landmines.

A truck backing up on a narrow street in Portland
during my visit this past summer- beeeep beeep beeep

And I am suddenly walking into that hospital room again-
beeeep beeep beeep- I am approaching his bed. beeeep beeep beeep

The truck is continuing to back up and it won’t stop making
that hideous sound. I cannot get the sound out of my head.

I am placing my palms flat against his warm face. I am kissing his bruised
and swollen eyelids. beeeep beeep beeep- I am kissing the tip of his nose.


The truck is continuing to back up. It is beeping and beeping and
I am wishing it would roll right over me. How is no one hearing this?

The only indication that he is alive is that sound beeeep beeep beeep-
and the rising and falling of his chest, which he isn’t even doing on his own.

I want to forget that beeping sound, the external measure of his beating heart.
I know that beat. I heard it through his chest with my head pressed tightly.

Boom. Explosion. Where is there to hide when the sharp pieces start
to fly? I want to forget. I want to forget that I ever heard that sound.

I am standing with my childhood friend and my bright-eyed Goddaughter
in an interactive exhibit at a museum. She is pretending to be a vet.

Stuffed animals are everywhere. A pretend clinic. Stethoscopes. Little
ones running here and there caring for their sick patients. They are laughing.

It was the sight of the little white lab coats that set off the first mine.
Turning to see the stainless steel exam table set off the rest of them.

My breath was sucked right out of me and while everyone else, in slow
motion, went about their regularly scheduled activities, I was hit with a

near-fatal blow. Blows. To the heart. To the stomach. To the head.
I want to forget. I want to forget those white coats and that silver table.

I want to forget being led to a room to collect his ashes. I want to forget
walking in front of the family, as though I could protect them from what

we were about to see. I want to forget that blue sign above the door. The
absurdity of the translation. “Comb Out Bone.” I want to forget that we

were being led to a room called “Comb Out Bone.” I want to forget the
moment we realized what we were about to see and how Gareth’s

brother led his mom away, down the hall, where she could be shielded
from the sight. I want to forget how Gareth’s father and I remained, how

I held on to his right arm. How I held so tightly to that arm to keep myself
upright. I want to forget that what I was seeing threatened to bring me to the ground.

I want to forget the large glass window that separated Gareth’s father and I
from what almost looked like a staged setting: A sparse room. Two men in

white lab coats. A stainless steel examination table in front of two stainless
steel doors with powerful latches. I want to forget that it looked like square

doors to a walk-in freezer. I want to forget how the two men, the two men
in white lab coats, each held a door handle and blasted the room, their faces

my heart, singed my eyes, with the heat. I want to forget how momentarily
the escaping heat made everything wiggle. Made everything distort.

My Goddaughter is dressed in a white lab coat and putting a pretend
puppy upon a stainless steel exam table. She is checking its heart.

My heart has been pierced by a thousand pieces of shrapnel. I cannot
remove them without threatening to bleed out more. I want to forget.

I want to forget these two men in white lab coats with white masks and
white caps. I want to forget how they reached into that scorching hole

and pulled out the bones of my love. Pulled the long tray right out-
the tray that held the body of my love. I want to forget seeing that tray

slide out onto the table. I want to forget seeing his bones. I want to forget
recognizing the pieces- a piece of his leg. A piece of his jaw. His skull.

This was what was underneath everything when we were wrapped in
each other’s arms. Here was his structure. Here were the pieces of my love.

I want to forget. The industrial-sized dustbin. The two brooms held by the
two men in white coats. The sweeping. The sweeping of my love’s bones.

My Goddaughter makes her puppy hop up and down on the table. She
has cured it. Miraculous little doctor in a white coat. She has brought it

back from the dead. I want to forget that my love could not be brought
back. I want to forget seeing him, that strong and beautiful man, reduced

to segments of identifiable bone. I want to forget that I know what happens
between death and picking up of someone’s cremains. I want to forget.

I want to forget the careful way the two men, the two men in white coats,
swept up all of my love. Every last piece of bone and scattering of dust.

I want to forget those two brushes dancing back and forth across the
surface of that metal table, sweeping up my love. Sweeping him into a dustpan.

I want so desperately to forget the sound. The sound of the grinding of his bones
in a machine into a fine powder. I want to never remember how ashes are made.

I want to forget that it takes approximately 3.5 hours to burn away the man
I love and approximately 30 seconds to grind his bones into a white dust.

I want to forget standing there, holding onto his father’s arm, and watching
this all take place. I want to forget that I was setting up landmines across the

terrain of my interior self to detonate later. Where is there to hide? Where
can one go when the blast occur, without warning, inside of oneself?

I want to forget the ceremonious way the two men in white coats tapped
his ashes out on a long sheet of white paper. How the paper was folded and

folded again, until the shape of it fit exactly into the dark wooden box we
had picked out. I want to forget we had picked out a box. I want to forget

how this box was passed through a cutout in that glass window to another
man. A man in a sharply pressed suit and a blue crisp shirt. I want

to forget the white gloves. The pair of white gloves given to Gareth’s father
so he could receive the box of his son’s ashes in the customary fashion. I

want to forget the man in the suit wrapping Gareth’s box in white fabric.
Careful folds. Precise angles. A strong knotted finish on the top. I want

to forget thinking Gareth would have appreciated the ancient tradition
of this all. That he would have found this part to be acceptable. Just right.

I want to forget watching the man in the suit face Gareth’s father, holding
the box chest-high. I want to forget seeing the gloved hands of Gareth’s father

reaching out and taking the box. The bow that followed from the man in
the suit. The return bow from Gareth’s father, now holding his son’s cremains.

“He’s still warm,” he said. “I can feel him. He’s still warm.” I want to
forget that he said this. That I heard it. I want to forget the sight of Gareth’s

father standing there, holding the ashes of his son, his beautiful boy, and
saying “This reminds me of when I held him in the hospital for the first time.”

“Warm. Bundled up.” I want to forget how he looked down at that box. How
a father held his son once and once again 34 years later. I want to forget this.

Just weeks ago I was sitting across the table at a local bakery in southern
Illinois meeting with my grief therapist. It was our last meeting before returning

to Korea. “Remember- you don’t have to be the keeper of all memories,” she said.
“I think you’re trying to be there for Gareth- for his family- by taking careful note

of everything, everything that happened. Everything you saw, felt, experienced.
You have assigned yourself the duty of keeping careful record of everything.”

“One day,” she told me, “you will give yourself permission to not remember it
all. Not see it all in your mind in such great detail.” I want this. I want to forget.



Saturday, September 27, 2014

Day 210: What I Want to Remember

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. What do I want to remember? What do I want to forget? And what I need to write today is of the sweetness. What I want to remember. Because, truthfully, what I want to forget has been keeping me up lately. So, let's go gently into the love.

September 26, 2014


I want the gatekeepers of memory to be
kinder. To open the doors and escort out
the dark. To imprison the light. I want to

remember only the light. I want to walk
in the chambers of my mind, placing my
hand on the handle of any door, and not

fear what is on the other side. Even more,
I want the doors to blow open as I walk
past- each one- blow open, and I want to

smile when I look inside. Here, in this
room, we are side by side on the bed, my
left hand clasped in his right. I want to

look into this room and I want to remember.
I want to not be crippled by a memory,
knocked down. Breath stolen. I want to

look in and feel my chest stir. To stand at the
doorway for awhile and take it all in. Step in,
perhaps, for a better look. I want to see our

feet, having found each other, taking part in
their own discussion, quite independent from
the thoughts we’re exploring. The thoughts

we’re sharing. I want to remember this. I
want to remember how we could lie there
for hours and do nothing at all but let our

hands be held and our feet explore. I want
to remember the hours spent with warm
limbs and warm lips and warm hearts and-

oh, I want so much to remember the warmth
of that little divot near his collarbone. I want
to remember how smooth the skin was there

and how I could feel his heartbeat if my finger
was still. I want to remember the tiny peach
fuzz hair on his earlobes and the small scar on

his hand. I want to remember how each time
I’d place my palms flat on his face it would
take his breath away. I want to remember this. 

I want to remember the sound of his voice-
reading “American Gods” to me over a skype
call late at night. Or a poem he’d written for

me across a table in our favorite café. I want
to remember the sound of his voice near my
ear as we stood on that hill, under that full

moon, as he recited “Moon of Mountains.” I
want to remember how sometimes the sound
of his voice and what he said could make my

legs lose their power to hold me up. I want
to remember what it was to lose my balance.
To be drunk with love. I want to remember

the feeling of falling. And I want to remember
being caught. Being caught up in his jacket like
a baby or an animal. I want to remember how

he would arrive at my door mid-winter, how I
would unzip his coat and crawl in. I want to
remember the chill of his face under my lips

and how I would tell him he smelled like Christmas.
I want to remember my hand on his leg when
we drove. I want to remember winding through

country roads in Korea, bright green rice fields
and India ink hills in every direction. I want to
remember the way he’d fall asleep on longer

drives and how I’d steal glances of his settled
state as my sleep-dappled passenger. I want
to remember his moments of peace. Of stillness.

Of holding and being held. Of laughter so
contagious I’d press the replay again and again.
I want to remember dancing in the kitchen,

bathing on the rooftop, surprising one another
with gifts, and leaving notes. I want to remember
mid-day phone calls and surprise text-messages.

I want to remember the site of him, stark
naked, back to me, standing at the kitchen
sink washing out our tea mugs.  I want to

remember him looking back, slapping his
backside and saying, “Are you looking at my
bum? Quit looking at my bum, you bum-looker!

That’s rude!” I want to remember how this
made me laugh until I cried. I want to remember
how he delighted in making me laugh. How

intoxicated he was by my joy. I want to remember
seeing him act- how he’d burst onto the stage
with such intensity. How he’d sing in a norebang

with such intensity. How he’d plow through
a crowded subway area with such intensity.
I want to remember his intensity. But I also

want to remember his softness. I want to
remember this: sitting on the back of his
motorbike pressed up against the warmth

of his back. I want to remember how he’d
ride with one hand on the bike handle, the
other reaching back for my leg. I want to

remember how he was always reaching for
me. I want to remember writing together,
speaking the same language. I want to remember

collaborative efforts and how proud we were
of each piece we birthed. I want to remember
being the proud parents of words joined together

on the page. I want to remember trusting him
with my words, and being the you of his words.
I want to remember You Are the You of My Words.

I want to remember every word of every line
in every poem he wrote for me. I want to exist
there in those words written by someone who

truly saw all of me and loved what he saw. I
want to remember meeting his coworkers,
his parents, his friends back at home. I want

to remember walking out of that party or
hanging up that skype call and seeing him,
grinning from ear to ear. I want to remember

how he told me he was proud to be seen with me.
Proud to be with me. I want to remember how
he thought I gave him “street cred” with his

friends and family, and how funny I thought
that was. I want to remember the feeling of
being with someone who was immensely proud

to be with me. And I want to remember feeling
incredibly lucky. Lucky to have found, quite
by accident, this man walking through the

crowded streets of my tiny town. Lucky to
have bumped into him on the corner of
that market place and invited him to help

me shop for slippers for my school. I want
to remember going home the night that
I met him and telling God, “Look here, I

just want to be clear that I have no intentions
of dating anyone while I’ve over here in
Korea. So…just…you know…I don’t know

what you have going on with this guy, but
I’m not interested. In any plan you might
have. Just want to make that clear. So…ok.”

And I want to remember how God laughed
at me then. How God laughed the way a
parent would laugh at seeing their child balk

at something that’s good for them. I want
to remember. I want to remember how God
kissed me on the head that night and said,

“It’s ok, Bridget. You don’t have to worry one
bit. I’ve got Gareth. And I’ve got you. And
you’re ready for something absolutely magical.” 


Day 209: What I Wish for You

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. What would I wish for others in this course- others who have lost? Or others who will follow this journey behind me?

September 25, 2014



I wish for you the most beautiful dress-
pink tulle and rhinestones and shiny satin.
I wish for there to be capped sleeves. Yes.

I wish for elbow-length gloves with little
pearl buttons. A clasp. Oh, let there be a clasp.
I wish for there to be a tiara, if you want one.

I wish for you teardrop earrings and a
necklace that you feel the absence of when
you take it off. I wish for you a sparkly ring.

And I wish for you shoes that click when you
walk and leave little bits of glitter each time
you take a step. I wish for you a trail of glitter.

I wish for you a jewel-encrusted hand mirror
to hold up to the sun. I wish butterflies of light
to dance around your world. I wish you light.

And I wish for your reflection to be one that
you recognize. One that you love. I’m so
pretty! You’ll say. I wish for you to twirl.

But most of all, I wish for you there, in your
perfectly relaxed grip, a pink magic wand
of exceptional quality, glowing brightly.

And there, kneeling at the swirling black
hole of your grief, I wish for you to reach
in with your wand, illuminating the dark.

Power restored. Memories sprung to life.
I wish for your baby to return to your arms.
Your partner’s lips to touch yours. I wish

for you to ride, windows down, in the heat
of the summer with your brother. Your wife.
Your mentor. Your spouse. Your love person.

I wish for it all to go back to the moment
before. Before the fall. Before the call. Before
the last goodbye and the last breath taken.

I wish for you to meet me, one day, quite
by chance, at a coffee shop or a local diner.
“Hello,” you’ll say. “This is my [loved one].”

“Nice to meet you both,” I’ll say. “And this is
Gareth.” I wish for us to shake hands like
we’ve never met. Like we’ve never lost.

And if this, if THIS, is not a possibility, then
I wish for you, I wish for me, to fall back into
it softly. Sweetly. The essence of what was.


Day 208: Grief is Everywhere

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. Grief is everywhere...

Wednesday, September 24, 2014



This morning I was standing in my tiny red
bathroom, which also doubles as a shower.
Water spraying everywhere, my foot on the
toilet lid so I could make an attempt at shaving
my legs, I wondered when the last time was
that I changed the blades on my razor. This
thought was suddenly cut off by another. This
is how it is lately. My brain is a traffic jam of
unwanted thoughts. Sometimes there are crashes.

You should have been more compassionate. You
abandoned him. He would still be alive today if
you hadn’t have asked for space. Why did you do
that? There is no going back now. It’s over. It’s done.

Grief is everywhere. 
And sometimes it comes
when it’s not invited.

This evening I was playing “Cards Against
Humanity.” In each round, a player asks a
question from one set of cards, and the rest
of the players answer it with a card from their
own hand. The question card was put down:
“How did my last relationship end?” That was
the question. No joke. I looked at my hand.
“Dying.” That was the top card in my hand.
Dying. I laughed until tears fell and I yelled,
“I WIN! I MEAN…SERIOUSLY! I….WIN!” No
one else thought it was funny. Why did I?

Grief is everywhere. 
And it doesn’t always know
how to make friends.

People think I am moving on. They like to
think I am “better.” It reassures them to think
so. What can I say to that? That I often cannot
fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning?
That I’m going along with this- with this whole
thing, but I’m not the least bit happy about it?
What can I say to them, these people who want
to see me not grieving? That everything is ok?

Grief is everywhere.
And it doesn’t work its way out of my system
like the common cold or a seasonal bug.

Are you tired of hearing me talk about it?
Are you tired of seeing me write about it?
Believe me. I’m tired of living it. Grief is
exhausting. It is knock-you-down-time-and-
time-again exhausting. It’s I want to go back
so badly and each morning that I wake up
I have to come to terms with it all over again
exhausting. It is with my morning tea. My
drive to work. It is with my teaching in class.

My sitting alone at lunch. It is with my drive
home and my walking the dog. It is with my
heating up the soup and washing the dishes.
It is with my attempts to stop thinking about
it when I dive into virtual chatter or attempt
to read a good book. Grief does not hide itself.

Grief is everywhere.
And it doesn’t seem to prefer one activity
over another. It feels welcome for everything.

Last night I had a dream. I was on an airplane
full of passengers. There was plenty of room
to move about the cabin. In fact, there was an
arcade and a restaurant aboard. A ballgame was
on the screen, and people were jovial about all
manner of things. I was there. And so was grief.

The flight attendant nearly passed me by but
decided to stop. She gave me a clear plastic cup
filled with water. She gave grief a strong martini
with chunks of caramel floating in it. I don’t drink
alcohol. I can’t drink alcohol. I tossed back the
water and grief tossed back the martini. Oh…and
here it was…finally…the feeling of grief slipping off
of me and sliding to the floor while the rest of me
became comfortable once again in my own skin.


Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Day 207: The Condition of My Heart

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt.
 



I closed my eyes and asked my heart
to show itself. Show yourself to me.  A
beating vessel held gently in my hand,
perhaps. A glowing orb in my chest.

Imagine my disappointment when I
saw this: a vast desert. Dry, cracked
earth. A tattered and spiky tumbleweed
being carried across the land by the wind.

Touching down to the dusty ground and
becoming airborne again, my heart was
flying wildly out there in the desert heat.
Twisted and bare, my heart was flying

wildly. I ask to see my heart and I'm given
the image of a bundle of prickly weeds
catapulting through nothing at all. This.
This is my heart? How little I know of

myself. Also knowing very little about
tumbleweeds, I decided to research-
to learn about my heart in the form of a
tumbleweed. What was my heart doing

out there in the desert? And I learn. My
heart is the structural part of my once
above-ground anatomy. In the before it
was connected to me. Connected to Gareth.

And everyone saw it this way. When Gareth
died, my heart matured too quickly. My heart
dried. Unsure of what was feeding it, my heart
detached itself from its root, from me, and 

began tumbling wildly. The tissues of my
heart are dead, I learn. The tissues of my 
heart are dead. It is a functional death.
functional death? My heart, like a tumbleweed,

knows exactly what it is doing. It is
necessary for this tumbleweed, my
heart, to degrade gradually. To fall
so completely apart that the propagules

can escape during the tumbling. My heart
has propagules. How little I knew! I learn
of the propagules in my tumbleweed heart.
I learn of their one goal: to propagate an

organism (me) to the next stage in its life
cycle. I learn that I am being propogated.
I learn of my life cycle. I am my own parent
organism. Mind blown. And how do these

propagules get out and do their job? Only
by escaping as my heart detaches itself and
tumbles wildly through a vast space. I am
tumbling through the vast space of grief and

my heart is intent on surviving. Creating
again. Parenting itself. I learn that my heart,
like the tumbleweed, will eventually come
to rest in a wet location. It will be thirsty.

It will be parched, in fact. But when it
finally meets water after its jarring journey,
I learn my heart will swell again. It will absorb
the water around it and once again it will swell.

In this full state, in this nourished state,
my heart-my tumbleweed heart- will open
mechanically and release its seeds. I learn that
my dry, tumbleweed of a heart still has seeds.

I am not dead.










Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Day 206: What I Didn't Know


I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course. This post is in response to today's prompt, the 15th one (halfway through) asking us to examine our writing and the process so far. What have we found out about ourselves? Any surprises?

There were a few.


------------------------------------------------------

15 writing prompts in.
15 to go.

I didn't know it would be this hard.
I mean, I write all of the time.
I've had to. It's what has kept me
tethered. Alive. Connected.

Things bubble up for me and
spill out on the page. And until
I put them there, I can't sleep.
I can't eat. I'm immobilized.

What does it matter if I set the
tone or if a dictated prompt does?
How much different could
writing with a community be?

I didn't know it would be this hard.
I didn't know I would dive in,
head-first, and days would go by
before I realized I was out of breath.

What great relief I felt to have found
my tribe. I belong here. They are
speaking a language I understand. The
language of grief. The words of trauma.

The specific dialect of sudden loss.
Yes! That's it exactly! That's how I 
feel! And you understand exactly 
the hows and whys of my sadness.

I didn't know I'd be so relieved to
read my own story in the stories of
others. The guilt. The shame. The
deep sense of longing. The fog.

I didn't know that this would come
with more duality. That relief would
be met with the heaviness of our
circumstances. Our collective loss.

Husbands gone. Taken by the water
in their lungs. Or the gun in their hands.
Or by the car of a stranger. Or by
the very cells in their body. I didn't know.

Motorcycle crash. Break-in and
murder. Drug overdose. Brain
tumor. Electrocution. Heart attack.
Suicide. Hospice. I didn't know.

Mothers gone. Siblings gone. Friends
and lovers gone. Children gone. (Why
must there be the children?) Raw.
Torn from arms of mothers. Fathers.

I didn't know. I didn't know that my
hurt and loss and missing of Gareth
would get swept up and stirred in
with the loss of others. I hurt for them.

I say the names of the ones they miss.
I look at the photos of their faces. I
look at them there with Gareth's and
I take them in. I take them all in.

Wide smiles.
Boyish grins.
Laughing eyes.
Sandy hair.
Brown hair.
Silver hair.
Golden hair.
Glasses.
No glasses.
Swaddled baby.
Graduation robe.
Sunglasses.
No sunglasses.
Sitting under a tree.
On the swings.
Bundled up for winter.
Arms wrapped around each other.
Bright red lipstick.
Light linen suit.
Soft eyes.
Hawaiian shirt.
Baseball cap.
Green scarf.

And there is Gareth among these
faces of the dead. Of the ones
we're mourning. The ones who
brought us to this writing course.

Here is his face captured in that
photo -smiling because I was behind
the camera. He was looking at me
and he was smiling. That smile.

I didn't know it would hurt so much
to see him smile. I didn't know that
I'd feel the weight of those smiles.
Those faces. These people we love.

I didn't know that sometimes I'd
admonish myself for under- qualifying.
I didn't love long enough. We weren't
married. My grief doesn't count.

I didn't know I had the capacity to be
so cruel to myself, while being so
understanding of others. I didn't know
that I could bring myself to tears.

At the same time, I underestimated what
strength could be drawn from collective
pain. It is a holy thing, this bearing witness.
This gentle kiss at the feet of grief.

I didn't know how much I needed a
place to mourn without judgement.
Without fear of being seen as selfish,
dramatic, hypocritical, or negative.

I didn't know how much I craved a
safe place. I didn't realize how unsafe
I felt beyond the confines of this little
private writing group. I feel unsafe.

Someone, upon hearing about this course,
said to me- "See? Doesn't it feel better to
know there are people out there who have
it much worse than you?" I didn't know.

I didn't know that statements like that
would make me feel like hurling glass.
Pulling hair. Screaming at the top of
my lungs and pulling all of the plugs.

I didn't know how validating it would
be to share things like that and have
an entire group of people echo back,
"That's complete and utter bullshit!"

I didn't realize I was in a club of fierce
protectors, and how much I am in need
of protecting. I didn't realize sometimes
I need protection from my own thoughts.

I didn't know this would happen. Any
of this. I didn't see myself here, writing
about Gareth, to a group of strangers.
That Gareth is gone. Gareth is gone.









Monday, September 22, 2014

Day 205: A Tour of My Apartment

September 22, 2014

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course. This post is in response to today's prompt encouraging us to write a letter to the one we've lost and introduce them to our "new hometown"- the place we now live in without them.

In my case, it truly is a new hometown. Gareth and I met in the small town of Hadong, 2.5 hours south of Daegu. He moved in with me not long after and we spent the first 6 months living in a 3-bedroom, 2-bathroom apartment on the 8th floor, overlooking the Samjin River and the rolling hills.

After 6 months he accepted a job in Gyeongju, a 3-hour drive from Hadong. It was in Hadong and Gyeongju (and in the city of Daegu) where we spent most of our time, alternating weekends and arranging other times to go off adventuring.

On February 14th of this year, 14 days before he fell, I moved into a small 2-room apartment in Hayang, 35 minutes from where Gareth lived.  What brought me here initially was a new job after searching for one that would allow us to be closer together. We were excited about it. No more 3-hour drives to each other's places.  No more rushing to get back to our towns for work. We giggled at the thought of mid-week overnights and the convenience of spending time together.

This was before those last days in January when things made a drastic change. I often entertain a parallel universe where those January days had a different outcome and he would still be there, a short drive from my door. I think about how easy the new drive is. (I return to Gyeongju often to visit friends of ours, and pass by his new apartment as I enter the town.)

It took me a long time to stop viewing this new town I'm in through the eyes of someone who wanted to share it with Gareth. "Oh, he'd like that!" "We should check out that place to eat sometime." "That's a funny sign- I should send a picture to him." I imagine him coming to my apartment for the first time. Then I imagine his things slowly taking up space here- his toothbrush and the toothpaste he liked. His razor. His special mug with the leaves on it. His ground coffee. His spare clothes. His dirty laundry in a pile on the bedroom floor. His clean laundry hanging with mine on the rack. His jacket draped over my chair and his shoes next to mine in the little space just inside the door.

I picture these things. I remember how this was in our old apartment.

As it is, Gareth never stepped foot into this apartment. Many of his things are still here, but he is not. Ah. It hurts to even write that now.

So, the assignment is to write directly to the one we lost. I do this from time to time and it brings me a lot of comfort, actually. At first, I couldn't think of a single place here in Korea that I'd want to show him. We had seen all of these places together. There is hardly a place that has only my stamp on it.

And then I thought of my apartment.

-------------------------------------------

Dear Gareth,

You would have been thrilled at how close I really am to you. You would have loved the fact that the first time I saw this place, there was a black and white Mini Cooper (like the one I had back home) in the parking space, and the name of the apartment is 해비치, or "Haebichi," or as it sounds (and as I like to greet it each time I pull up: "Hey, bitchie.")

You'd love how easy it would have been for us to drive to Ansim station, 10 minutes away, park the car, and ride into downtown. Remember how incredibly ridiculous traffic was each time we drove into downtown Daegu? Bah. How different it is now. I think about that almost every time I make the trip, which I do at least twice a week for Korean classes.

You'd love how close I am to work and how convenient that is for me. You'd love that it's just one street over from the main street in Hayang- a Daiso right around the corner, restaurants, a Starbucks, the train station a block away. You would have loved walking the campus of Daegu Catholic University, just behind where my apartment is. And beyond that, some great hills to climb and see the sun dip down beyond the Korean horizon you loved so much.

You would NOT have been pleased with the centipede problem I came back to after visiting St. Louis, nor would you like the tiny counter space where you would have been making your famous chicken stir-fry. You would have found the fridge unacceptably tiny but you would have commented on the great water pressure in the bathroom.

You would have dug the 1970s starburst wallpaper but would have been mortified that it was shared in the same room with a more 1980s granny flower pattern. (Oh, Korea.) The storage spaces would have pleased you greatly, and you would have been so happy to see that our favorite chair (the one I rescued from the trash) made it all the way here from Hadong.

The chair. Our favorite chair. We loved that chair. Here after a night of fun poetry projects happening on the coffee table.
I have the photo of me, the one you had taped to your wall in your apartment- the one you showed me when we would skype: "Look at my girlfriend. Have you seen my girlfriend? This is her here. Isn't she pretty?" I have that same photo taped to the side of my microwave. I see it each time I enter my living room and sometimes I repeat to myself what you'd say. "Look at my girlfriend. Have you seen my girlfriend? This is her here. Isn't she pretty?" You are not here, but you are many places here. In that photo. In the folded up draft of a poem you wrote for me taped next to it. Below, on the fridge, are photos of us together- in Gyeongju, in Namhae, in Geoje, at Samseonggung, at that pension on the west coast. I see you in these pictures everyday.

There's a framed photo of you, me, and cousin Isaac from that weekend in Geoje the three of us loved so much. I have it on my kitchen counter and talk to the both of you sometimes when I'm cooking. Isaac is in Vietnam now. Ah- you knew that. He moved before you left us.

Other things of yours are tucked here and there throughout this tiny living space. Some t-shirts of yours are folded up among mine in my closet. A collection of your books sit below my tv. The last little plant you bought me is still in its blue container, although the plant died long ago. I can't bring myself to throw it out.

The brass Buddha you bought in Hwagae is on my bookshelf, as are the little stones we collected on the beach. A few stuffed toys you got me are also there. You were always sneaking little things into my bag or surprising me with them at odd times. God, I miss you.

I laminated your handwritten version of "Get Me" and pinned it up next to my mirror. I read it most mornings when I'm putting on my make-up. The other poems you wrote for me, all 88 of them, are in a binder in my closet. Sometimes I pull it out and spend some time with your words. I find myself in there when I feel like I'm otherwise lost.

The watch you bought me for Christmas is on my dresser, as is the one you bought me for my birthday. Other little bracelets and trinkets you gave me sit there, as well. The black and silver dragonfly pin- the one you got in Jeonju when I was also sneaking and getting something for you (the watch with the burgundy band)- is on my jewelry tray. I'm about 3/4 through the bottle of grapefruit body spritz that you bought me. That's on the dresser, too.

In the bottom drawer of that dresser are the "special lady clothes" I brought back that first summer to surprise you. I have such delightful memories of presenting those to you. Really- it was funny. I'm certain I won't wear them for or around anyone else, so I'm not sure why I still have a drawer dedicated to them, but I can't seem to throw them out, just like with the dead plant. The Daegu Theater Troupe is putting on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, so perhaps these garments will see the light of day, after all. Funny. We don't think about these things at the time. I certainly never thought about any of this when I was packing them in the summer of 2013.

The bed is not the same bed from our old apartment. And I'm glad about that. I don't think I could stomach climbing into that same sacred space with its now gaping emptiness. This bed, the one I sleep in, already feels like I'm floating alone, out in the middle of a dark, turbulent ocean each time I get in it. I hate that you're not there. For the first few weeks, I balled up a shirt and put it down where your hand would have rested in the middle of the bed. We used to hold hands in our sleep, and waking up to reach for your hand and find you not there was too much. I held onto that shirt. This would have made you sad to see.

The last thing I reach for each time I leave the apartment is your key chain- the one with the little Lego flashlight man I bought for you and the piece of leather I got for you in Jeonju. When we found your keys after you had fallen, I wept and wept with happiness that you still had those two things on your key ring. You had them. You didn't destroy them in your rage. You had my photo tucked away in a book that I got for you. You had notes I'd written, crumbled as though you meant to throw them away and then carefully folded again as though you'd changed your mind.

I found myself in your belongings, too. I found myself all over your apartment. My hairdryer. Little gifts I had given you. Hand-drawn directions from Gyeongju to Hayang. You moved me with you, as I moved you with me. I love you for that, sweet one.


So, let's tour this place, shall we? Here it is. Haebitchi Apartments.

I'm on the ground floor. Like- actually right there on the ground floor. My apartment is the only one like that. The rest are inside of the building. I like to consider myself kind of the janitor who does nothing.

That sliding door with the gold goes to all the apartments. But that's not where I go! I don't even know the code. I'm that grey door to the left. It made it really easy to move my things in!

Open the door and this is what you see- the tiny kitchen, bathroom straight ahead, and a room to the left and to the right.

This is not at all like the kitchen we had in Hadong with the full table in chairs in it. Yikes. This is tiny. My washing machine is under my stove and it fits about a small size of diapers to be laundered. Too bad I don't wear diapers.

On the kitchen counter is this photo of you, me, and cousin Isaac in Geoje. What a fun weekend!



Above the sink- dishes for one. I don't need much, I guess. I got a new running bottle, since I sat mine down on a run to take photos of flowers and forgot about it. I went back the next day and it had been swiped. Somewhere out there is an ajumma with a really durable water bottle made for running long distances.


Redrum! Redrum! The bathroom is about the same size as the one you had in Gyeongju. It's not that great tub/shower that we had in Hadong, but I'm used to it now.
Standing in the bathroom and looking back out through the kitchen to the front door. Living room on the left, bedroom on the right. Dog right in front of you.
Ok. Back to the front door/walking in view to orient yourself. We'll be stepping in and going to the right, where my living room is.
Dog. And the chair from Hadong! So glad I brought it. Good storage ahead. Tiny little fridge to the right. Couch and table to the left.
I have photos that I took in the first 1.5 years along the wall. Most of them are of Hadong. Such a beautiful place to have lived.


Dog. And on the fridge are photos of us as well as an amazing magnet set of Philopena that my friend Lisa made for me.

Dog. And better view of the magnet set.
Better view of some of the photos I have up. Helped me not feel homesick when I moved from Hadong to Hayang.
Looking back out into the kitchen. I don't have a stove, but I do have a microwave on top of the fridge. The photos of St. Louis and of me and Maud are up there. These were on the kitchen counter in Hadong. I also have our dinosaurs under the lamp. Remember those?

We played with these a lot during breakfast in Hadong. they were under the same lamp, which sat on the kitchen table.
Dog in new dog bed. Same couch/fold-out bed from Hadong. Same coffee table. We put that one together. Some art pieces from the trash in Hadong. Oh, and there's Lambie! Deputy Snuggle! This is where I do all of my writing. And eating. And just about everything.

Under the tv is your collection of Niel Gaiman books as well as some poetry books of yours. Some went home with your Mum and Dad, but these- which had special meaning for us and some were gifted by me to you- stayed here. In our first days of knowing each other, before we began dating, we would skype for hours and you would read "American Gods" to me until I fell asleep.
Back to the orientation spot- and we're going to the left now, where my bedroom is.
Remember that HUGE bedroom we had in Hadong? Maybe twice the size of this one. There's another great print I got from the trash behind Daegyung Apartments. I think it was just to the left of the bathroom in our place, wasn't it?

New bed. Bookshelf with the same books we had in the bedroom. Lots of little things that make me feel good. Dog bed.
There's that 1970s starburst wallpaper I think you'd like. The prints that I got in Vietnam and had tacked above the couch at our old place were finally framed just before I moved here.
All my dresses! You commented time and time again about my wardrobe. You loved my dresses, particularly, and thought I had a great sense of style. You were quite complimentary. Thank you for that.

When I moved in, each room had one of these, a twin bed, and a desk. I had them take the twin beds out, the desks out, and I put these in the closet for clothes storage. It flipped their little lids, but I did it anyway. Lost of bracelets from you hanging there.

The brown leather band you bought in Busan and wore frequently sits with the brown watch you got me last December and the beaded bracelet you wore every day. You were wearing it when you fell. There's the black and white Skagen you bought for me, too. Was that our first Christmas together, I think?
Behind my bedroom door is the pink lamb hat I bought when we went to Busan the first time. And there's the other little pink rabbit thing with the mittens. I wore that a lot in the apartment with you when it was chilly.
A copy of "Get Me" by my mirror.
How many times did you recite this to me? I really couldn't begin to count.
Lots of feel goods on these shelves.
Bah! Our toy cars! Like children we'd lie on our tummies and vroom these around the floors of the old apartment. Looks like they may need a bath.

Those little hand poker things I bought for you in that underground shop in Busan when we were off finding gifties for each other. And the little antique piece I got when you go the brass Buddha.

A photo from our Chuseok trip to the luxury pension with some rocks we collected.
Looking back to the front door from the kitchen. I bought the red hanging piece in Thailand in January. The drawings on the back of the door are the very first things I ever hung in the Hadong apartment. Solly painted them.
And your key chain with the two little pieces I bought for you hanging from them. It feels really good to reach for these every morning knowing that you did the same each day. This is what you reached for before you left your apartment. It's what you had with you on your last night out. These things. These things I gave you. I was with you in them as you are with me in them now.