A Whole New Wardrobe
an ode to our family's journey to survive your loss
If I must be a prickly needle Your death must be my thread.
I keep myself tucked away; at a safe distance for upon contact they bleed and I stay stoic – pain means nothing to me.
Your death is a mess of yards and yards and yards of fabric drowning engulfing suffocating me, unless I dare to poke, to rip through.
If I must be a prickly needle Your death must be my thread.
In every poem I’ll hide you within the swirls of my cursive mess in notebooks – I will dream your dream out loud until every stadium waves a flag of your silhouette –
I will carve in all the surfaces on which you left mere impressions – And if I must grieve, no other mother should ever have to grieve alone.
If I must be a prickly needle Your death must be my thread
I will swim my way across this mess of grief and loss and uncertainty – of your death – I will thread it through me so everything I do is stitched with you.
“Unlikely pairings of chaos can make magic – look at five of us.”