I just found a poem that I wrote this fall on Pitcher Mountain in New Hampshire. It’s only a draft, but at that time my grief was only a draft.

Odd how stunned I still am, two weeks after my brother’s death. It’s not as if I didn’t know. I can only hope that my process of anticipatory grief might make the blow — when it comes — a little less intense than it might otherwise have been. Again, I find myself waiting . . .

Anticipatory Grief

When you know it’s coming

And you try to have hope

And you do believe in miracles, but

You know it’s coming.

* * *

When you try to tell yourself

One day at a time;

He’s alive today,

But it doesn’t help.

* * *

When you walk beneath golden oaks

On a brilliant red carpet of maple

But you know it’s not for you.

* * *

When a chittery chipmunk

should bring a smile,

But instead its tail in a question mark

Makes you wonder . . . when?

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