What the Body Remembers

Two years after my son's death nothing much yet speaks to me, but sometimes there's a moment, or a person within a moment, who makes me take a breath deep enough to realize that I'm still alive. What the body remembers is not a lie, not a truth, but the subtleties of each wrapped in the confusion and the now of our moments here on earth.

I am a poet who doesn't write poetry. How can this be when for so long it was my life, my dream for my life? Perhaps, just perhaps, this will be the beginning of answering my own questions.

Dorianne Laux expresses some of what I felt, and still feel, with this poem.

Dust

Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor --
not like food, sharp or sweet.
More like fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes --
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.