I was dismayed to find myself dismayed the other day
that someone had laid a bowl of crocuses on your grave
in the place where I lay my Sunday flowers
usurping I thought the raw memory of my loss.
Yes, my loss and my memories belong to me alone.
But there can be no monopoly of grief.
Others have loved you, of course, many others, and love you still,
who hold your memory in their hearts;
other men, some who abused you, I know; you told me; husband,
lovers; less worthy, or worthier than me.
They of their time; who is to judge?
You once said, ‘It is outrageous to be jealous of my past.’
And you were right; jealousy is corrosive at any time, even
in the sharing of grief; especially grief, perhaps.
And there is narcissism to contend with too; not just in grief,
but in love, in prayer…
I have been there: trying, vainly trying to strip away vainglorious
thoughts, corrupt desires – the black want always splashing
on my prayers…
And after all, you shared your last years with me – we shared
a precious decade… We traveled together; we were happy, even
in our ailing days.
Until, quite suddenly, after four short agonizing weeks, you left
alone on your own journey.
At airports, at railway stations, at the open doors of taxis, we have
said goodbye, touching our lips in a final embrace, saying, ‘I love
you;’ clinging in our thoughts to the moment, the certainty of being
together again.
And later, on the phone, ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you…’ and, ‘I’m sorry
I did or did not do such and such.’ There was always time
to fill in the gaps, re-edit, to apologize, or to say it again…
Alas, it was not like that that fateful morning.
When you left for the last time, I was numb with fear, with dread,
consumed with practical household things; until the final shock
of the suddenly wholly expected…
I remember the time when I kissed your warm forehead, and later
when it was cold; and touched your hand when we lay side by side
on that last night.
But when did I last say, ‘I love you?’ And you would reply, ‘I love
you.’ And I can hear your voice saying that – the stress on that last
word. I wanted to recite the poems you loved to hear: ‘The owl
and the pussy cat’ from Edward Lear… that you once recited to me
when I was in hospital in intensive care.
And there was no poignant deathbed scene: holding hands until
the gentle closing of your eyes…
I was downstairs at the time.
And the only voice to say, ‘Cut, we’ll take that scene again,’
is the voice in my mind.
But it was, ‘Cut and print.’ It was a wrap. I am forever condemned
to rehearsing other scenes in my mind.
The tears came later; six months later.
But they came in the end… They are falling now
like spring rain on a numb heart barren with grief.
I am learning; I am learning many things; that grief is not assuaged
with time; it is here to stay; it lurks in the heart; it is like a chronic
illness that one can only learn to live with.
The only certainty is the precious price of loving you – a cross
that I gratefully bear: and the uncertainty of love and despair.
There can be no monopoly of grief. There is always grief and more
much more to share.
Roger Collis Gatton, February 25, 2010