I'm a sucker for writing process - what inspires writers, where do they work, what are their habits, how do they move from spark to flame?
Tonight I want to share a poem I wrote about two years ago. Alex and I had taken a walk up to Emma Willard and I took some pictures. It was a stunning fall day - the pictures came out great. I even blogged about it. We played, giggled, picked up leaves but I also had my mother on my mind. It seems silly to point that out because it's so often the case. As we began to walk home, I remember saying something that Mother used to say and smiling to myself, so happy that she's alive in me in so many ways. Even happy thoughts like that don't come without a fresh bite of grief, and I was struck by the familiar refrain of the paradox. It seems cruel that the possession of some little bit of her still comes with a price paid in tears.
As I considered this, I looked up at the trees and what I saw seemed to confirm everything I felt, so I took a picture of what I saw, and the poem came a few days later. Here are both picture and poem:
Today I miss you, but differently.
I will always miss you,
But today the contrast of then and now is sharp,
Just as the sky looks impossibly blue behind
An autumn-torched tree.
What is the living part of you in me
That is thrown into
Against the pain of your absence?
How is it that
Present and past become complementary?