I'm taking a 30-day online writing course with Megan Divine. (Click here to read about the course.)
I found Megan quite by accident in the early days of grief that often entailed endless searching on the internet for words to help me, searching for words that read like I felt, searching for what was taken. Her own writing about the loss of her partner and her subsequent thoughts on grieving were what I listened to, in her voice, through my earphones at night while trying to sleep. I heard her tell me "There is no wrong way to grieve. You're doing this exactly right."
I felt relief.
The 30-day course is meant to provide a platform for a small group to write about their grief with the help of a daily prompt. Some grief is old. Some is fresh. Some involves death of loved ones, but not all. Some grief is attached to other losses.
I am not alone in my grief.
I'll continue to write because (a) it's what I do and (b) I get great relief from doing so. I should be posting something every day for the next 30 days based on the prompts I receive. The writing, like most of the writing on this blog, will not be crafted. That will come later should I decide to do anything else with it. For the time being, it's a way to process what hurts. To mend what's broken. To remember what's gone. To love what's there.
FIRST PROMPT: (before class started- a "practice prompt")
"I'M TAKING THIS COURSE ON WRITING MY GRIEF, BUT I'M NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT..."
Here's what happened:
--------------------------------------------
I’m taking this course
on writing my grief
my grief
writing my grief
one word
one sentence at a time
one letter
little letters strung together
like pearls on a string
pearls of grief
for this necklace I wear
little letters
one at a time
strung together
to tell the story of my grief
of my love
of my lost love
I’m taking this course
on writing my grief
but I’m not going to
write about
meeting the man
in the alley where my love
fell
where my love fell
I’m not going to write
about meeting the man
six months after my love fell
I’m not going to write
about meeting the man
in that very alley
4 floors below the window
where my love fell
in the alley
below the window
four floors down
the window
that still has the
marks of my love's hands
my love's fingertips
my love's fingers trying to hold on
dusted by black dust
left there by the police
on the morning he fell
I’m not going to write about
meeting the man
in that alley
four floors below the window
where my love let go
where my love could no longer hang on
and let go
I’m not going to write about
the man who found him
found my love in the alley below
with a “large-y” woman hovering above
woosh woosh woosh woosh
wooshing air into the lungs of my love
I’m not going to write about
the man who found my love
laying there
a pool of dark red blood
around his head
face up
left arm out
legs slightly bent
as though he were napping
peacefully
right there in the alley
I’m not going to write about
this man
the man who found my love
and called for help
119 he told me
911
here in Korea, he said
it is 119
I’m not going to write about
how I knew that
How I’d pass a fire station on the
way to my love’s apartment
How I’d read the large numbers
on the fire station’s truck
119
Emergency
How I never thought
there’d be an emergency.
My love fell from a fourth floor
window into an alley
on a Saturday morning
Early
Before anyone else was awake
Anyone else but the restaurant owner
who heard the fall
heard the screams of the large-y woman
Found the large-y woman
trying to breathe air
into the lungs of my love
I’m not going to write about
meeting this man there
in that alley
where I could swear
the blood stains still remain
6 months later
I’m not going to write about the way
the man
the alley man
the man who called for help
I’m not going to write about how he
pantomimed for me
the way my love’s body
fell from that window
four floors up
bounced off a car
and fell backwards onto the alley below
I’m not going to write about
the man
the alley man
who showed me here,
here was his head
(my love’s head)
and here, here were his legs
(my love’s legs)
and here “pi” he said
looks like "pie"- sounds like "pee"
looks like "pie"- sounds like "pee"
mani many pi!
red-euh red-euh pi
red-euh red-euh pi
pi is blood
I’m not going to write
about the time I learned the
Korean word for blood
pi
and how ridiculous it is
that as horrified as I was
by the image of my love
laying there in his own blood
that belonged
secure
in his fully intact skull
I’m not going to write
about the fact that I
smiled at the word “pi”
Such a ridiculous word.
Pi
I’m not going to write about
the bag
that bag
the black plastic trash bag
that I found under my love’s
bed in the hospital
I’m not going to write about
taking that bag out of the
room
into the hallway
in hopes of finding his cell phone
his wallet
his keys
I’m never going to write
about kneeling there
on the hard floor
in the hallway of a hospital
in Korea
and opening that bag
That heavy bag
full of the things my love was
wearing when he fell
from that window
four floors above the alley
I will never write about
the heat that poured from
that bag when I opened it
even slightly
about the stench
the smell of a dead animal
hiding in the brush
during a hike
on an otherwise beautiful day
I’m not going to write about that smell
I’m not going to write
about the way I gagged
and held my arm to my mouth
but reached in anyway
for that phone
that wallet
those keys
I’m not going to write
about my hand
in that dark black heat-emitting
plastic trash bag
about my hand meeting
the pockets
of my love’s favorite jeans
the dark ones
and the burgundy shirt
and the brown v-neck sweater
I’m not going to write about
my hand reaching in and
discovering wet fabric
damp clothes
horrible stench
“Was it raining?” I asked
someone nearby.
“Was it raining the morning he fell?
“Was it raining the morning he fell?
His clothes are all wet. Why are his
clothes all wet?”
I asked that, but I’m not going to
I asked that, but I’m not going to
write about it. I’m not going to
write about the look on the face
of the woman I asked.
A friend of my love.
My love’s coworker.
I’m not going to write
about the fact that she got it
before I did and that she would have
to stand there, head shaking slowly,
a look of pity waiting for the facts
to catch up for me.
I’m not going to write about
I’m not going to write about
the fact that it was not raining
the morning my love fell.
From that window.
Four floors above the alley
where the man found him
laying there
in his dark, dark,
“pi”
with the large-y woman
blowing air into his lungs.
I’m not going to
I’m not going to
write about the my hand
in that bag
that steaming bag
of heavy, damp clothes
the clothes my love wore
on the morning he fell
“Is it pee?” I asked?
I won’t write about
the fact that it would be
6 months later
until learned the word
the Korean word
for blood
For the blood saturating
the clothes of my love
my hand in his pockets
my arm over my nose and mouth
No keys.
No cell phone.
Only wallet.
No cell phone.
Only wallet.
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