A Poem From The Other Side
I was shut down.
I went dark.
It had been a couple of weeks since Dad’s passing, and I still had yet to cry. It was as if emotions had ceased to exist, and I was running on autopilot. I was still going to school and going through the motions. My friends were trying to be supportive but didn’t really know what to do.
I was coasting, coming home from school every day and surviving off of Kraft dinner.
Someone had bought us a Costco case of the stuff so we would have food, and macaroni and cheese became my go-to comfort food.
I had been writing poetry before Dad died and had been published as a poet in a couple of pretty significant publications. My parents were proud of my ability to put words together and make them sound cool. I was proud of myself for being published. The whole time writing felt like I was in a trance, and I never fully believed that the poems were mine.
Being a Pisces, I was always a little dreamy and spent a lot of time in my imagination. The writing felt like an extension of that, and a way to move out into the world that which made no sense in my mind and heart.
It helped it all make sense.
One day after school after Dad’s passing, I came home and I was sitting with my family. I felt a stirring of rage begin in my stomach, and I didn’t quite know what to do. I wasn’t sure what to make of the anger that was burning there, so I continued to sit with my family, thinking that it would pass if I didn’t show it.
But the anger just kept getting worse. It burned more deeply, and then suddenly it burst out of me in the most intense outburst possible. I ran away from everyone and went to my room. Mom didn’t know what to do, and the family was sitting there wondering if I was ever going to cry. What happened next is not likely what they were expecting.
Once in my room, I began to write.
It felt as if I was possessed. I was not really there, and I felt like I was in a trance.
My hand holding the pen was racing across the page, scribbling words that made no sense to me. The moment I felt completion, I put the pen down, and all the pain and agony of the last few weeks came screaming out of my throat.
The tears, the frustration, the sheer pain of it all was this guttural scream that reverberated through the house. Not knowing what to do, my mom came and held me as I cried, and cried, and cried some more.
The dam had finally burst and my agony was pouring out of me.
What seemed like an eternity later, exhausted from the release, I decided to share the piece I had just written with Mom. I told her how I had felt when I wrote it, and that it didn’t seem to be me who was doing the writing. She sat down and read it and burst into tears.
A couple of years prior to Dad’s death, he had purchased a sailboat, which had been a lifelong dream of his. We hadn’t had much chance to go out on the boat yet, but Mom and Dad had made a solo trip one weekend and had quite the experience on the lake. During that trip, Dad shared the name of the boat with her. The details of this trip were not really revealed to us kids because it had been such a special trip for the two of them.
Within the poem were things that had happened on that trip that neither of them had ever shared with me. Within that poem was the name of the boat, which had never been shared with me. That poem brought me so much peace as I realized that Dad had been speaking through my pen that day.
That poem has been carried with us ever since as a reminder that he is always with us.
The morning mist
After a summer shower
Laying over the water
Like a blanket
Like a message
‘Don’t go anywhere
Stay to watch the show.’
As the morning pulls the blanket off
And wipes the sleep from her eyes
The birds say good morning
The wind whistles in
And the sails are lifted
Glistening in the yawning sun
The wind will pick up
The sails will fill out
The sun will rise to noon
And when night comes
To put the sun to bed
You will see in the distance
A white ghost, a Northstar,
With a lone rider
Sailing off, into the sunset.