Through dark and cold seasons - 1. Through dark and cold seasons

The uncharted, elusive, and frightening Unknown
Shifts size and shape, and wears multiple masks.

If, brave, you seek to discover its nature,
It will slip away the moment you appear to grasp it.

If, fearful, you shy away from it,
It will torment you endlessly.

If, foolish, you choose to ignore it,
It will reclaim your attention when you least expect it.

Spring

Your hand slowly seeks mine and elicits a smile.

* * * * *

Tonight, the balcony seems such a peaceful isle.
We remain motionless and silent a long while,
Observing the sparrows, in the garden below,
Dance their nuptial ballet in the last sunset glow.

We, too, are young love birds, albeit of passage,
Impatient to take flight and test our fine plumage,
To build a cosy nest for the future baby
Who started to add curves to your graceful body.

The Unknown, right ahead, appears easy to tame.
Certainties surround us and are ours to claim.
Our wallets may be flat, but sparkling business cards
Herald professional accolades and regards.

Blue skies and birthday cakes, far-away holidays
Will measure the blissful unfolding of our days.
The future promises a vast cornucopia,
With remaining questions soothingly familiar:

Which flowers, plants, and birds will be populating
The garden that your mind's already designing?
How many little feet will tiptoe to our bed,
Eager to wake us up for the Sunday ahead?

Summer

Your hand rests at your side, immobile and tired.

* * * * *

The Unknown has unleashed its mighty displeasure.
Our foolish confidence we painfully measure.
Vanished our mislaid faith in everlasting health,
In fancy careers, and childish hopes for wealth.

Even on a fine day, our path lays in the mist.
Beyond the shrouded bend, does a path still exist?
When anxiety strikes and makes me close my eyes,
All I see is four walls, with no view of the skies.

* * * * *

The promise of new life within you died away,
Casualty of the grave mutiny underway.
While new scars now disgrace your fragile silhouette
The rebellious cancer, inside, is still a threat.

Laying on the sofa, you glimpse at the blue sky
But the limited view fails to satiate your eye.
Even the joyous chirps from your favourite sparrows
Now taunt and pierce your soul like so many arrows.

The balcony’s railings, a birds’ choice landing stage,
Form the vertical bars of your unlikely cage.
Home, so bitter-sweet home, has become the prison
You are free to escape for your weekly poison.

Hospital appointments fill your empty schedule.
Counting pills thrice a day becomes our new ritual.
We ward off the unknown by charting your progress:
Each smaller marker count represents a success.

Unwelcome words pervade your vocabulary:
« Protocol », « catheter », and « chemotherapy »,
Are scribbled on a sheet of useless letterhead,
While numbers aplenty flood your artistic head.

Comfort is but a long forgotten memory;
Simple pleasures become a rare luxury.
Pain creates its own range of distinctive feelings:
It is chronic, acute, tingling, burning, stabbing…

Your unconventional, free personality,
Refuses that disease be answered by pity,
Abides to each cryptic medical decision,
Fights for any lasting self-determination.

With unwavering resolve, you hand me the clippers.
Your hair falls on the floor and sends through me shivers,
And I swallow my tears, praising your resilience
As you hold your bald head high in proud defiance.

Fall

My hand lays over yours, soothingly caressing.

* * * * *

Your horizon is near; we shield it from your eyes.
We cling to our mantra: you, tiger with nine lives,
You, immortal phoenix—you do bear the bird's name!—
Will cheat Fate and deprive Death of its likely game.

Endless words of comfort, uttered with conviction,
By friends and family, who crossed a wide ocean
To bring you their support, see you with their own eyes,
But whose mere presence here, at your bedside, belies.

You declined the way out that the doctors offered,
Chose fight over defeat, and pain over comfort,
Your resolve to survive still intact in your smile.
…Yet the battle within is reaching its last mile.

* * * * *

The silence in the room appears punctuated
By the regular beeps from the morphine syringe,
Keeping you heavily, thankfully sedated.
In your deepest slumber, pain doesn't make you cringe.

The pallor creeping in augurs imminent death.
How many more of these painful and laboured breaths?
How many more of these quiet, feeble heart beats?
I fear too soon will stop all these annoying beeps.

While caressing your face your mother is singing
A childhood lullaby, so soothing and calming,
Quiet melodious chant in a foreign language:
The tale of a young girl living into old age.

The song draws to an end, I get lost in a rhyme…
And as your chest, slowly, rises for one last time,
—Everything will be fine, your hand is in my own—
You, irredeemably,… slip into the Unknown.

* * * * *

Your hand is still in mine, and this is all I know.
Your hand is still in mine, and I shall not let go.

* * * * *

Numb from the emotion, nauseous from the vision,
I remain there tearless and unable to feel.
Screams echo in the room, tears flow in unison.
« This is not happening! God, this cannot be real! »

The Earth must have, surely, stopped its revolution.
Long-held beliefs are now cast into oblivion.
Flawlessly, the atheist recites a childhood prayer.
The Christian curses God, His impotence laid bare.

My brain frantically tries to find logic to grind.
It's happened already! Can't you see? Are you blind?
My mind whispers to me with sadistic smugness
As if something in here finally made some sense.

Isn't this the outcome we have been expecting,
Crammed in this tiny room, over the last few weeks?
Awful, guilty relief further whitens my cheeks.
Damocles’s Sword fell; gone is all the waiting.

Both your body and soul are free from suffering.
Our pain, long kept hidden, is at once erupting.
The earlier sense of dread explodes into sheer grief,
Mixing anger, sadness, and utter disbelief.

Winter

Your hands lay on your chest, your fingers intertwined.

* * * * *

This body resembles, strangely, someone I know.
While an instant ago, I could not let them go
Now I dare not approach the hands I held so much.
When I finally do, I recoil at the touch.

You do not look peaceful. Death did its ugly work,
Fixed your eternal smile into a grotesque smirk.
Gone are the tiny lines, gone the skin’s blemishes,
Gone the glint in your eye, despite all my wishes.

No, this cold wax figure can't possibly be you!
This face belongs to an alabaster statue!
The woman whom I love, beautiful and lively,
Just lights up the whole room when she makes her entry!

Someone takes a picture, one final memory,
Without realising the cruel irony
Of immortalizing the moment which, for all,
And without remedy, proved that you were mortal.

Over the last few weeks I braced myself for this.
My idle mind working in anticipation
Replaying dramas of mythical proportion,
Crafting romantic scenes set into Pain's abyss.

Like Romeo holding the inert Juliet
I would pour all my soul into one last embrace.
But this tragic scene was by ignorance beset:
A corpse is too rigid to accept such embrace!

Anxious thoughts strike again: I did not say good bye!
Too late for final words! Too long did we deny!
I wanted to tell you « It's okay to let go,
You never deserved this, you fought like a hero! »

I wanted to, softly, say « Je t'aime » one last time.
Like I had said one day above the wedding chime.
I had vowed to protect, to honour and love you.
And I did! But from this, I could not defend you.

Spring

My hands are fists of rage raised against the heavens.

* * * * *

My open hands reach out, craving for your presence.
My hands cradle my head emptied by your absence.
Which cruel god’s sick game can this be a part of?
Which god did I anger? Why us? Why you, my love?

The train ride home is but a long and quiet sob,
As I let pain invade, listening to my heart throb.
Reality drags me somewhere I can't avoid:
Home… daunting, dark and cold, and of your smile devoid.

While some words are orphan, others find redemption.
« Home » is mourning « Our », its favourite companion.
« Gut-wrenching emotion », convicted hyperbole,
Clears its name, while, on me, ruthless grief takes its toll.

* * * * *

I will, sadly, learn to think of you in past tense
And use your name and « Death » in a single sentence.

* * * * *

The crumbled prison walls reveal an open land.
But how could I enjoy a freedom I resent,
In this barren landscape where even stones lament,
Without you to guide me and hold my shaking hand?

Everything around me looks so drab and so dull:
Grey lifeless blades of grass, a dried-up waterfall…
Nothing that will cheer me or help me reminisce.
Wandering aimlessly seems the only promise.

I fill my sensations with the smell of your clothes,
My ears replay your laugh when I tickled your toes,
And my palate fancies your exotic cooking…
At night over my heart I clasp your wedding ring.

Sometimes the pain subsides, when I want to believe
That a small ladybug climbing up on my sleeve,
Or a lone butterfly, or a duck on a pond,
Are some tangible signs you send from the beyond.

I no longer request doctors' explanations,
But seek reassurance in Buddhist traditions,
And the Book of the Dead offers me a mirror,
A path of acceptance of both guilt and horror.

« Death is a part of life, a natural occurrence,
Which you choose to ignore with puerile insolence.
Be ready for your death, young, healthy traveller!
Be ready for your death and that of your lover! ».

By now your soul has joined the heavens' multitude.
Of your journey onwards this is but a prelude.
And your earthly remains, too, reach infinity
As I scatter ashes into the open sea.

* * * * *

My hands reach out for you, but of you find no part.
They grasp but emptiness and, sad, fall to my side.
My hands reach out for you and then they find my heart.
This most mysterious place is where you now reside.

Heavy heart but no tears, this time, on your birthday.
The love I had for you, is still as strong today,
As it was on the day I bent down on one knee.
A shining light inside it forever will be.

Summer

My hand strokes longingly your face in the picture.

* * * * *

The passing of seasons has blunt pain and sorrow.
Time has come to prepare myself for tomorrow,
To honour the promise you requested from me,
When, ignoring your pain, you sought to comfort me.

Our talk that day had been unusually serious
Your need to discuss this had turned imperious.
Guessing the pledge you’d ask, I had lowered my face.
You cupped it in your hands and made me hold your gaze.

And I simply nodded, showing I accepted,
But unable to voice what my heart rejected.
Yes, after you are gone, I must and shall live on.
I shall find in memories the will to carry on.

When mourning is over, I'll respect your request,
And accept to welcome what my heart will suggest.
You knew well that Cupid has his own agenda,
And that Love knows no shape, size, colour or gender.

« Someone else », someone « nice » was your only advice.
You understood me well: no need to ponder twice
My equal attraction to woman and to man.
Once again it will go according to Fate's plan.

I have by now embarked upon this new love quest.
I yearn for an embrace and I will try my best.
Both elated and scared, and this time, on my own,
I will dive, willingly, into a dawn unknown.

* * * * *

My hand snuggles gently in someone else's hand...