Poetry 170: Ambiguous Loss Part II

Ambiguous Loss Part II

 

“Absence and presence are not absolutes.”

-Pauline Boss, Ph.D.

 

Though not logical,

because I still carry

a 1978 photo of her—the one

with the blue eye shadow

and the flower-print skirt—

in the back of my wallet,

but when another

Pacific-size wave

of gut-wrenching grief

swells over me yet again,

it still comes as if 

from out of the blue. 

I am always

so unprepared.

 

Especially when the

time-lapse between

the last ripples that

barely covered my feet or

the latest tsunami

that took me out for weeks

have grown a little longer.

 

Or perhaps it is

because I have 

consciously, unconsciously, 

turned my back again

on those sorrow-filled

waters in the understandable 

yet futile effort to

try to look forward;

the downside of which

always comes when 

the unbearable weight of water

soaks me through

to the bone, leaving both

surprise and disappointment.

 

Surprise because that grown,

and dare I say healed

part of me, has learned

to actively live her

present-day life

with both vigor and delight.

 

Disappointment because

that eternal child-like part of

me continues to magically wish

this pain would finally

cease to exist, and

never, ever, return.

 

But that’s not how

ambiguous loss works,

does it?

 

Unlike the finality of death,

ambiguous loss can

seductively fade into the

shadows of existence and

nightmares where you

find a rhythm of complacency

masquerading as peace. 

But then, the grief

sneaks up behind you and 

not-so-subtlety dumps

an entire bucket of freezing

cold water right over the

top of your head,

causing you to shake and tremble 

as she mocks you

because decades later

you ridiculously continue

to believe that

1 + 1 will equal 2,

when you know,

you know, that never

was the case- at least

not in your experience.

 

But here’s the thing,

you also know,

in that wise sort of

deep-down-in-the-core

-of-your-being kind of knowing,

that, as Robert Frost wrote,

the way out is through.

 

And that, paradoxically,

living with ambiguous loss

likely begins with befriending

and embracing her, not

denying and rejecting.

 

Though I must candidly admit,

even as I write these very words,

I hear a voice inside

my head saying:

easier said then done my friend.

Especially with her warm flesh,

in cold, cruel reality,

still living less than

15 minutes from

my own doorstep.

 

Nonetheless, here we are.

 

This is the dilemma.

This is the challenge.

This is ambiguous loss.

 

-Me