Thursday, November 02, 2017

I don’t know how to grieve.

My mother died
Don’t have a clue what to do with this Intel
All my tears are conscientious objectors from another unobserved police action

I covered up her face with a white sheet
Then I uncovered her face so she could sing like a nightingale
I pray the check to the rabbi doesn’t bounce because I don’t feel like going to Hell today

I don’t know how to grieve
Properly or improperly
All my coping mechanisms have flown south for the winter

Tired of pretending I’m broken
Tired of wishing ill on others because I don’t know how to build my own happiness
Tired of being tired and want to wake up and walk away from all this sadness

My mother is dead
My father has been out of the picture for quite some time
Picture perfect families only exist on TV and in our most warped of nightmares

Grief and I have never quite seen eye to eye
When Hospice called I was inconsolable
Soon I stopped crying and a drought took hold like an absentee parent or vengeful God

Charles Cicirella

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