When your tragedy happens
You will be gobsmacked
You will look up “gobsmacked”
And it will be exactly how you feel–
When your tragedy happens
My tragedy happened when the love of my life
The man I just married
107 days before
Ended his life
by
jumping
in front
of
a
[REDACTED]
Yours might be smaller
But you will have one too
And the hurt will be
BIG
To be human is to be
Gobsmacked
By at least one total horror show
June 17, 2021
One.
I was married
Briefly
To a beautiful man
Who sang to me
And our big, goofy dog
All the time
But especially during
Thunderstorms
Or fireworks
So our pup, Millie,
Would not be afraid
He soothed us
He wanted peace
But he had
None.
Two.
When you tell people that your
Partner died
Suddenly
They feel a certain way
When you tell them he died by suicide
They seem to feel something different
To feel like:
You are contaminated
You are responsible
He must not have loved you
Because you could not keep him
Happy
This bothers you
Deeply
Because you worry
They are right
Three.
There is a betrayal in almost any
Death
A supreme abandonment that cannot be undone
With it comes the revelation—that you cannot count on anyone—
Not even yourself
To promise, meaningfully
Not to do the bad thing
And betray you just the same
Death carries with her
On her wretched, time-hooked back
The caustic knowing that all people
Will rend what’s left of you
Sooner or later
More violently, the closer they get.
Four.
I cannot appreciate abundance
Now
I am aware of it, tangible
As having anything
Is
Even the non-stuff of prosperity
I can look at it
Palm it, coldly and with medical disinterest
But it cannot move me
And I do not feel it
I can give it
A token
A smile
Seven days by the beach
To watch what it should do
How appreciation and gratitude should feel
But even giving
It is a bequest
The emotionless discharge
Of the already dead.
Five.
Enter
Two small and fragile cats
An approximation of the babies
We would never have
Both named for you, vaguely
In ways that most do not
Understand
We three
Quietly
And sneakily
Haunt this house
For you
A place you’ve never lived
Six.
Those cats again.
While I am loath to admit it
I sometimes
Tell them about you
Aloud and as though they are human
Or capable of really hearing
I call you their father
Sick and pathetic, I am aware
And explain to them
What we have lost
Cooing gently and with tears
Into the vacuum of their
Small feline faces
Which reflect only
Our collective
Inability
To
Understand
What any of it means
Or how losing you
In any way, but especially that way
Could have happened.