dialects

Yesterday, it was the grief that lingers like the smell of pine when the Christmas tree has already been removed. You take big gulps of your own volition, seeking the pockets of air that would fill your lungs with memories.

When you breathe out, they scent your nostrils and weigh down your tongue with a realization of gone forever. A heavy tongue, a heavy heart, lungs full of yesteryears– it’s no wonder you are stuck in place.


This morning, it was the grief that presses against you like clothes hanging in the closet where you’re hiding with all the monsters. There’s not enough room for all of you, but nothing budges. The clothes, they rattle and push. The buttons knock together and the zippers snag in your hair. Ow, you think, ow, you want to say aloud, but everyone in this hideaway corner already knows you’re hurting. But this dark, this morning, it hurts less than light.


Last night it was the grief that knows you need to sleep. The almost motherly hand that freezes you down with small turns of a glistening block of ice. In the numbness, your heart forgets everything, even you, and the steady thrum of that confusion sings you to rest.


The woman on the phone apologizes unnecessarily. She says, “I’m sorry, I’m describing grief to you — to you. I’m sure you already know.” I do and I don’t. The more I lose, the more I realize how many dialects of grief are native to my body and how many more there must be in this world. What are the chances that we speak all the same ones, or the same ones in the same way? What are the chances that our body would language it out of us the same way? Slim, I think.

We never really learn the common tongue, though we find our way to some things recognizable. The flail and the bruise, and the march and the still, the monsters . You probably have your own words for those, but I bet they sound enough like mine that you would know them to be the same language.

Still, I wish I knew a few more words and how to use them.

I’ll keep listening– to myself, and to you– until I do.



For those awaiting an update, Kozo passed away on March 1st. If you need a place to talk about it, you can always email me. rawra.avis@gmail.com I think I’d like to do a Bloggers4Peace blog challenge in May for his birthday. If you have thoughts on peace, keep them in mind so you can join in whether or not you knew him.

10 thoughts on “dialects

  1. It is always heart breaking to feel loss, man or animal. It carries same weight. I wish I could say something to ease your pain. Right now I’m lost for words as I’m thinking of my own loss.
    Stay well and be brave, better things will happen. It’s natures way of testing you. 🙂

    Like

  2. I don’t think it matters what words we use, or if we all use different words, or the same words. You have enough words for you. And for me. I clicked on the Kozo link just because I wanted to see his blog again even though I knew there’d be nothing new there.
    Alison xo

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I don’t know what to say.
    Your words have touched me too deeply to even express my own.
    I always love what you write. Always.
    Your words go where no others can.
    It’s beyond amazing. It is your gift. Never stop speaking.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. I have only one word available to me right now. Love. I want to send it to you, and know I don’t know a whole lot about how to say whatever I want I say much worse to express how I feel. Thank you for building bridges with your words. I can walk across what you wrote to the extent that I can, but it’s harder for me to build a bridge out from where I am, so I rely on your words for the connection to you.

    Liked by 1 person

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