Digging deep

We do not grieve graciously;

instead

refusing to throw in the towel

a primal howl 

of gnashing teeth, a flash of fang,

lashing tail...

angry.

And lacking a target, 

we zero in on each other

fighting for first, etched with gilt

wounding with words, buried deep, to the hilt

while I wait,

for him to dig us out.

Occasionally I can turn a phrase. I sometimes accidentally stumble upon some lyrical language. I can always be counted on to force a cringe-y rhyme or two and alliteration clings to me like lint. I toss words at you, blinding you with fistfuls of sand, so that you are unable to recognize the true poet in our family.

A sweet gesture...a common practice...but when asked, just prior to putting our sweet little dog "to sleep, (perchance to dream)," if we'd like her paw prints taken after, I reacted with an abhorrent of course not. The idea of seeing her prints, of lifeless paws that would no longer dig beneath blankets, or flail in the air as she wiggled on her back in the grass, or step on my foot as I stood at the kitchen counter to remind me that she was there "to help," sickened me. I didn't even pause to consider Brad, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with me at that moment...to think about what he might want. And in the darkness, with me, he remained silent.

Pain poisons. First yourself, then those around you. 

I began to guard my grief...hoarding it like a cursed treasure...burying it deep.

But Brad Mosiman had begun the process of digging well before he laid our little dog to rest among the blueberry bushes.

He meticulously meted out a monument, carved in concrete...where fuzzy little feet had once stood, warm and wagging and wonderful...years ago. Like a gem-cutter, carefully shaping this precious stone...a sculptor smoothing the clay, transferring the warmth of his hands to the cool marble, my husband labored, beneath shrouded skies and November's lies, to wrestle this relic from its earthly embrace. To place a paw-shaped peg into a heart-shaped hole. This man...a poet with a pick-ax, kneeling, engaged with the task of harvesting my heart from the frozen ground. How many times can I fall, ever more deeply, in love with him?