Not Whimper But Bang

A romance like ours can’t just fade away 

becoming nothing; love like ours can’t end at all.

What seemed a slamming on of brakes

was merely a sudden change of gears.

I bought him grey for the nursing home —

grey pyjamas, grey socks ... at least its neat

but does suggest perhaps a gradual fading,

a bleakness. We don’t know what is coming.

It is Samhain, the festival of the dead.

My eyes can barely stay open. Emotion

is so tiring! But I need to light a candle

to honour the ancestors, before I sleep.

I feel as if I am living the Death card in the Tarot:

the death of a way of life or a way of being,

occasioning mourning. But we’re supposed to

come out the other side; it’s meant to be rebirth.

The cats are restless, coming in and out

repeatedly, as if looking for something. 

Or someone. A pale gecko has got inside.

It ran away from me to lie on the ceiling. 

I bought red wine tonight, even though 

the image of an old lady on her own, drinking,

seemed pathetic. I drank it anyway, two glasses

with dinner. Now my thoughts are all over the place.

A friend advises Beethoven. I might try Wagner.

Something cathartic seems called for tonight.

I’d like to clash some cymbals. Or kick down a brick wall.

I go in my mind to where he lies sleeping. I hope he sleeps.

I’ve packed his suitcase; I’ve filled in the forms.

He knows now that we won’t live together again.

Tonight in the hospital we cried together, then 

laughed at ourselves, then cried some more.

Some day soon, I hope we’ll find new gladness.

Yes, I suppose he is gradually dying, but aren’t we all?

Tomorrow they move him, tomorrow the new life

begins. I descend into depths of darkness.

April PAD Challenge #30: Fading away