A friend of mine thinks this is a bad idea. She thinks I should work on reading it aloud, because to triumph over this would make me stronger. I told her it doesn't work that way. Strength comes, but healing has to happen naturally; it can't be forced. I was able to write the poem, but I can't control my voice or emotions when reading it. Most people—including my therapist—think I've come a long way and am fairly strong, considering. I've written lots about Jill and have shared my story in a number of ways. I even read some of her poetry to a group. So it came as rather a shock to have someone tell me that I'm chickening out over this.

Susan

Wouldn't you love to share your deep feelings for the daughter you love so much? Then maybe get a dear friend or loved one to read it for you. If you like the idea, it would be a way to share Jill with others.

I totally understand how you feel. Healing is a very personal process, and only you know what is right for yourself.

PS Any chance you'd like to share it here?

Yes, I can share it here. I'll do that tomorrow.

Thanks again,
Susan

If you think you can finish it eventually, my suggestion is to bring lots of tissues and read it. You don't have to read it quickly. If it is read aloud, it will have the greatest meaning if you do it.

If you just can't do it, don't feel bad! If the thought of your heart tearing in such a public situation just doesn't feel doable, then just leave it for the book, and people will gain a lot from reading it.

Congratulations on having your poetry chosen.

Wendy

To My Own

The lapping cadence of an Irish poet,
his measured footfalls and air gently stirred
by the pace, brought me face to face with Morpheus,
until from the rolling sea of stanzas, one lost
word lain fallow these five months
rose up with such force I gripped
the sides of my chair, rocked
by a sound that might have come from you.

Hayfield. You walked down to it. You called
the herd of horses up from it. You skied
across its rises and dips, counted its clover leaves,
rode bareback through its tangled grass.

Still, this sepia scene does not define you; nor
do you speak in the sharp straw snapping
underfoot. Your words shine with the strength
and frailty of silk, music…

The clarinet case is closed. Your sixteenth notes
gave up their grip on the night air, and fell
to the forest floor. A deer will come
upon them and prick its ears.

The horses are sold.
The last of your father’s memories
mix with ground fog, soon to burn off
in a harsh morning sun.

Incalculable loss.

No words will remain for this.
But oh, my daughter, the hayfield,
the empty, barren hayfield,
is still here.

Hope all goes well for you on the radio this week, even though I know you are not planning to read To My Own.

Star