Conversation with my brother on the phone in February
‘Do you remember Lisa Ramaci ? from across the street ? ’
This is always his line when he calls to talk about our youth.
‘Yeah, sure. Why are you thinking about her ? ’
‘I was just thinking about that life – I want to go back there.’
And I saw that world where we grew up – I existed there once. again
and I saw the roads and the houses and people
and I saw, and felt, it evaporate in my own mind.
surreal knowledge that what was once so real, is not.
That world no longer exists. How can that be ?
was it real ever ?
can real be without enduring ?
that feels . . . wrong
It isn’t that I wish for death
But I cannot well sense my breath
For I no longer feel alive
A stagnant pool that does not thrive
I talk to others, say … “I’m fine”
Standard words, a cool byline
My husband has died
a casket applied
with fire collide
death’s mist satisfied.
Thoughts of him brew
they cook and they stew
rains came and storms blew
for years these I knew.
One morning a sun
warm days now begun
life’s strings I can strum
my heart starts to hum.
Betrothed no more
stand at the door
feet on the floor
light shines afore.
My soul feels him still
and wants with a will
that marches the drill
of love’s easy thrill.
But now is my time
the present is mine
a future is prime
and all comes out fine.
My husband died from an aortic dissection at a young age (the inner wall of the artery over his heart broke), and every September on the pier at sunrise I write at least one letter to him in my journals on my life so far. In 2010 I wrote letter after letter until this, my first poem, came on the 8th anniversary. I felt like the poem did not come from me, but wrote itself. I get the feeling of marching when I read it.
Richard Bullock Jr. (12/13/54 to 9/12/02)