I love the weather. I love how it creates and frames a day.
I love the approach of a storm.
Wind, rain and snow--hail even if need be--I relish the raw natural cacophony.
Tonight it pours and I appreciate the drenching.
Tonight the soggy cold fits my mood perfectly.
The thought and memory and internal existence of my lost son Silas is like the weather for me.
Some days I am bright and beautiful, filled with the overflowing abundance of everyday life.
Knowing loss and awfulness intimately I cherish even more the moments of truth and love.
Low pressure, light of being, effortless ease through the breezy afternoon.
Other nights I am dark and full of storms. I cringe at the chill and dodge the sodden stream of rain.
Nothing lifts me up.
Nothing can cut that chain of despair.
And then there are nights like these. Nights where I only know what I have. Nights where I only know what exactly is true despite all arguments to the contrary.
His life and his death blow through me like pressure systems on a continent.
My hope and my failure, our dreams and our despair; they are the precipitations and condensations of facts caught in the currents of life; they are the thunderheads and tornadoes of fear; they are the beams of sunlight on his red, blazing tree.
I have no idea how to live this life anymore. I thought there was a path, a way of being and regard for the Universe that I thought would get me all the way through, as long as I stayed true.
There is only what there is and then there is everything you do with that and it is all up to you.
No one promised perfection, and if they did, as you know, they were lying. The closestto perfection is knowing that right now, right here, there is nothing else and no other way to be.
These are our lives. We make of them what we can, what we will, what we want. Hopefully, what we hope.
All you can do is accept it or fight.
If you don't know already,
I regret to tell you
fighting against the Universe
is the most futile fight of all.
This is it. There is rain and cold wind. There are sunny days.
Sometimes the sun burns, other times it is the source that fills you with light and lifts you through the day.
Sometimes the rain drenches and soaks and floods you away.
Sometimes the rain helps you to grow.
I am always a little bit happy when I'm sad, because I can feel Silas so close.
Sometimes I am sad when I'm happy because I know it is not the way I want it to be.
Good enough is good enough to get me by, most of the time.
But when it is not, I drown, and I love that too because it proves that I am alive,
that he was too,
and most of all
that I will never forget his soul, even in the sun. Even in the rain. Even in the night. Even in my dreams. Even in my eyes. Even on my skin.
I would love to read a stream-of-conscious prose poem or regular poem about your lost child, or how you feel about it, or anything you want. Details, imagery, specific truths to you, please let them flow and put them on the page. What do you feel today? What does the weather say to you? How do you connect to your lost child beyond regular words and sentences?