Grieve

Grieve

Routine serves its purpose.
Each day, it announces a list
of things to do:

Walk the dog.
Change the oil.
Go to the meeting.
Speak to the people.
Watch the news.
Buy the milk.

Sometimes, the list is
longer.
Sometimes, the order
changes just enough
to remind me:

Call the mother.
Speak to the sister.
Touch the wife.

Take time some time
to grieve.

It seems ridiculous to
me
this list.
It really doesn’t change
too much from day to
day.

But that’s my fault
isn’t it?

Should it not be
longer
this list?
Should it not
serve another purpose?

Touch the mother
Touch the sister
Press the wife close
to me.

And what of the father?

And what of the friend?

Sometimes they’re added
as well:

Speak to the father
Listen to the friend

And what of the
babies?

Go to the store.
Buy the roses-
they should be white.
Turn the soil.
Plant.

Each spring they promise
to bloom.
When alone in the yard
late in the evening
I can go to them.

In the morning I
can look out the window
and see them tossing in
the breeze.

They’ll swing back and forth
like babies on swings.
If I close my eyes I can hear
them laughing and calling to
me:

Daddy,
come and play with us.
Daddy,
take off your shoes
and feel the grass touch
your toes,
stop and listen to our
laughter.

Daddy,
will you wrap your arms
around us and pull us close?

Last night in a dream
I added to this list:

Kiss the mother
Hug the children
Remove the thorns
from my arms
Clean the blood
Lower the head

Allow myself to
grieve.

Antonio S. Caruso