Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Pick a year, any year

I wrote this next poem a year after Paul died. But it could be called Two Years, Three Years, etc. all the way up to Nine Years. The feelings are the same from one year to the next.

One Year

It’s a year, they say
Time to stop mourning for your dead son
Get on with your life.
Okay, I will, I reply.
Look – I work, I work out,
I write, I travel, I read,
I go to movies, I make love, I eat out,
I enjoy the company of friends.
And – I nurture myself with new hairdos, makeup,
massages and manicures.

After all, Paul took his own life a year ago
He didn’t take mine
At least not completely.

What they don’t know is
My life now is just playacting
Meant to fool others as well as myself
Into believing that I can move on
And begin to live my life again.

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