Tuesday 3 April 2018

I'm not a fan...

Don’t you think it’s weird that mourning
sounds exactly the same as morning.

One is a reaction to an ending
and the other is a brand new start.
In one, a light extinguishes
and in the other, the sun rises to chase away the night.

To be honest, I’m not a big fan of either.

But as dawn breaks on our new reality without you,
it’s a harsh truth that life goes on.
So, we get up.
We carry on as
we carry you along
with us in our hearts.

Drink the double-shot of reality to kickstart the day as we
brace for the platitudes that are supposed to make us feel better...

“The early bird gets the worm!”
“They are in a better place now!”

Bitch, I don’t want the worm and
who the fuck knows where they’ve gone?
And what place was better than being right here,
with us?

But we can’t say that, can we.
We are supposed to smile and nod.
Extend our palms
gratefully receiving these tidbits of tired old bullshit
just because people can’t take a second
to think something original.

They say they don’t know what to say
but here I am, not knowing how to even breathe.

Words have no meaning,
they are lumps of sound
stuck in other people’s throats
as they stare at me blankly, saying “Let me know if…”

Seems like my emotions might be inconvenient.

Gratitude for platitudes is surely
the hardest pill to swallow
when you’re raw and hollow and
all you can feel is a howling depth of sorrow.

Something irreplaceable has been
ripped away from you and
you’re torn up inside but expected
somehow to hide your true feelings.

Why is it that some people disallow grief to show his face?
We all know him - he’s a constant in this race
that we call life.

He’s the counterpoint to joy,
the balance of desolate emptiness to the feeling of being brimful of butterflies and sunshine.
You see, maybe they were onto something when they exclaimed “GOOD GRIEF!”
because grief is the price of loving with your whole being.

We run up a great debt through the act of relating.
Through all the highs and lows -
the frustrating and placating,
the intimating and fornicating,
the instigating and conversating -
our intimacy is tallied up.

Our love runs a tab,
unwittingly, you see,
because we all forget that we’re not actually immortal.
Then the end comes and we are called to account.
Your debt is in arrears, sign here and pay in tears.

So every salty drop is a mortgage of love.
I give it willingly,
for what you meant to me
cannot be matched by any earthly sum.

And so, just like every other morning,
I have to get up and face this mourning.

But, to be honest, I’m not a big fan of either.

Kath Teeboon

Copyright: the author asserts her moral right to be recognised as the creator of this work. Do not reproduce without express permission.

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