Many people said we needed to move after Paul killed himself in our house -- too many bad memories, you need a "fresh" house, they said. What they didn't understand was there were memories both good and bad in our house and memories both good and bad everywhere else. I couldn't even escape at the gym -- the place I go to most often as an escape. Riding It Out I sat on the saddle Spinning the wheels Of the stationery bike I leaned over the handlebars Elbows bent, head down Peddling in time to U2. Ride it out, the instructor said Ride it out for 30 seconds. The police said Thirty seconds is How long it took for Paul to die after He cut his throat. Thirty painless seconds. I don't believe it. How could it be painless? Could it be less painless Than the pain of his illness? Thirty seconds and no more pain. Was he awake? Was he thinking? Was he listening to the music in his head? Was he riding it out? … [Read more...]
Friends
After Paul's death some people just left my life. And, I won't try to guess the reasons why. However, on the plus side, through these last nine years I've made some wonderful new friends and have become closer to those who remained. This poem, one of the first I wrote after Paul died, was published in "The Compassionate Friends" newsletter to accompany an article called, "I'm Not Contagious," written by one of my long-time Esalen buddies who really understands all the trappings of loss. Aftermath They came in droves at first out of concern, out of curiosity. They sent flowers, cards and sweet notes saying call anytime anytime at all. Now it is quiet. A few friends invite us out, or come by. The rest have moved on glad to have done their duty. Don't they know I'm not contagious? My son's death will not rub off. I'm the same person I was before. A sadder person, perhaps but needing my friends just the same. … [Read more...]
