To be in grief is to be dislodged from the mouth of time. Someone has knotted the back of my hands, I tell my mother. Someone has tethered me to the trunk of a tree. Its wood scrapes against my skin every dusk.
I’m waiting for something, but there’s no way of knowing what. A spider, exhausted by the web she’s been weaving— drops onto the rug where I sit. I prop her on my lap, & kiss her to sleep. Hush, hush. We will crawl through the night together, I sing. My voice is scrambling out of its coagulated chords. Its blackened pit. I can hold its smallness in my hands— take apart its threads, one by one.
Every night, a bird’s moan disturbs my sleep. This could be a dream, this could be real. I am waiting for a telephone call on my half-broken landline. I am waiting for answers. For the beam of a baby’s laughter. For the child I was as a two year old, to sprint across this blue-tiled room. Where I sit atop an unthreaded rug: waiting for someone to hand me tea.
I am waiting for the child in me to come alive again. Her eyes still twinkling. For her to re-grow so that I can stroke the long back of her hair. Oil it. Maybe this is what grief looks like on some days. A longing for the girl you once were. To run into her arms— to bury your face in her lap. To seek solace in the bobbing rhythms of her head. Her hair flying in the wind.
She is alive, that girl in me. Sometimes I feel her in my chest. Squealing & squealing when tickled. To grieve is to remember the echoes of her laughter as I pull myself out of bed, & fail. It is gathering the wrinkled layers of my body into a unison. A private music.
Grief is the long wait for answers. Like leaving the body’s emptiness undisturbed, in the hope that it may refill itself. To wait at the traffic signal long after the lights have turned green. To keep knocking on the doors of strangers’ homes. Knocking at the door of your own home—a stranger. Forgetting your body at an antique store you don’t even remember visiting. Why did it matter? What did I buy? O, this little terracotta jar to feed the sparrows from. You suddenly recall, looking at the table.
Grief is when in the dark nooks of your room: you see only the soft edges of the door. And still you rise. How you fumble along the floor to reach for the doorknob.
What I’ve been reading & loving on Substack
“…glass can be recycled and remade again and again into something new.” This beautiful piece by
.“The sight of these delightful blooms kicking into gear this week got me thinking about the stories hidden in my garden.” This wonderful piece by
.“Rain had moved through in the morning; you could smell it, even from the train.” Love this lovely piece by
.“the small puppy the colour of sand and the larger puppy the colour of good earth, both asleep.” This gorgeous piece by
in .“Writing offers me a way to navigate the complex thoughts and emotions that arise from therapy sessions…” This beautiful piece by
.“What has pleasantly surprised me — My garden is a daily sweet surprise to me.” This lovely piece by
.“my wings won’t you drink/from these violent delights.” This gorgeous piece by
.“A medicine woman invited me to her place, a sanctuary with plants, flowers and birds…” This stunning piece by
.“I stood for a moment, lost completely in the music of the dusk.” This gorgeous piece by
.“To unwind,” he reminded me, as I smoothed the skin around his right shoulder blade. “You are allowed to unwind from your day.” This beautiful piece by
in .“I want a definition of work that lets me stop obsessing about what I’m doing or not doing and just get to the aliveness of my work already.” This wonderful piece by
in .“You are also the thing you are seeking. The thing that cannot be taken. Broad sunshine. Even when it rains.” This beautiful & moving piece by
in .“your hands/and all that they hold/are what I loved first.” This stunning piece by
- along with a bunch of her other lovely poems, here.“I imagine a stallion running along the bottom of the ocean.” This gorgeous piece by
in .“Where do words come from? Do they spring from my memories? Or give form to my unseen dreams?” This wonderful piece on writing by
.“I have a relentlessly hopeful heart and a fiercely optimistic mind. And long deep breaths to draw. For now, that's enough.” This beautiful piece by
.“A’s paternal Paati who always stood in the first floor balcony to say hi and bye at the beginning and end of each visit.” This wonderful piece by
.“He leaves with three bags full of figs and a box of pakoras.” This beautiful & moving poem by
.“I was born under a strawberry moon.” This stunning piece by
.“My mind fights while my body wishes to drift with the current.” This powerful piece by
in .“There are good things about grieving your old selves. You get to leave behind what no longer serves you.” This beautiful & moving piece by
.“Soil thaws, and your ghost gnaws/on my bones.” This beautiful piece by
.“I want to make it, God. I just want to make it.” This stunning piece by
.“You remind yourself that you have crawled out of such times often.” This beautiful & moving piece by
.“Although I’m well aware that a stove is most definitely a machine, this act always feel romantic, old timey and cute.” This beautiful piece by
in .“His generosity despite his fatigue is not missed by me, again tears threaten to spill.” This wonderful piece by
.“She invites my body to say to me, "Now. Now you are safe. You are here with me and you can rest.” This beautiful piece by
in .“But my heart weighs five tons these days.” This beautiful & heart-breaking piece by
.“Inspiration is everywhere — it’s in the rain, in the salt air, in children’s laughter.” This stunning poem by
in .“Grief is like that too, a million tiny urgent claws.” This powerful & moving piece by
in .
Trivarna, my goodness you have described grief so soulfully, so real. I was just sitting with a few very special "mom" friends from the old days last night (we are all in our 60's) telling them that "I walked toward my childhood into boxes, albums, memories and found myself there. I brought myself back in those moments and remembered my purpose for living." Guess I should write that down. They are struggling and I was telling them about some of my grief process which is now coming back more into focus. It was very heavy for a few years. Thank you for this beautiful piece that I relate to so much. I will hold you in my prayers for this journey, for this hard season, that will eventually turn to joy as it walks beside your grief and lightens the load. oxox
“Hush, hush. We will crawl through the night together, I sing. My voice is scrambling out of its coagulated chords. Its blackened pit. I can hold its smallness in my hands— take apart its threads, one by one.”
These words… how loudly the resonate and sing!
Deeply beautiful writing as always Trivarna 🍃