Tomorrow is my first day back at the hospice since his death. I almost want to call and find out if a new resident has taken his room, but I know it’s not about that. Sure, I mourn the loss of him, but I can’t let that loss take away what is needed from me as a volunteer. I have to be there for all the residents.
Although, I hope I’ll get a chance to sit on his bed and remember him for just a few moments before he fades away from the space that was his for months. I just want to sit alone in his room and remember when….
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"talk less write more"
"Many ingenious lovely things are gone that seemed sheer miracle to the multitude, protected from the circle of the moon that pitches common things about." -Yeats
Self Portrait
"talk less write more"
About Me
- claudine
- Born in Haiti, raised in Los Angeles, now living in the south. Wife, mother, and writer. Attempting my first novel called The Black Converse Diary; about a girl…… Also committed to the ongoing, almost forgotten, struggle against AIDS through various organizations. Mainly, volunteering at an AIDS hospice. Trying to find my own voice among the clutter. A strong, true voice that means something.
BLOG ARCHIVE
LIST IT
- "At the end of my suffering there was a door" (27)
- All Things Me (16)
- Hospice (7)
- To The Sea (1)
- Today (1)
- Waiting (1)
- World AIDS Day (3)
The Wild Iris
At the end of my suffering
there was a door.
Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.
Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.
It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.
Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.
You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.
Louise Gluck
there was a door.
Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.
Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.
It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.
Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.
You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.
Louise Gluck
THINGS I'M CRUSHING ON
- St. Aloysius
- Patches
- Apartment Story
- Cheekbones
- Padre Pio
- Louise Gluck
- Bloc Party
- Naked eyes with coat after coat after coat of black mascara
- The Bell Jar
1 comment:
It's always hard when they die.
I know you know that.
But, I wanted to let you know that I know that too.
I still always think of room G as "Ms. Ann's room." I don't think it will ever really be anyone else's but hers. No matter how much time passes.
It's always hard when they die; I know the feeling, friend.
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