Friday, February 6, 2015


(c) 2015 Laura Packer

Who could have predicted this season?
No computer model nor NOAA scientist sounded the sirens
telling us of the storm cells in your body.
Had I an early warning system,
radar that showed me the fatal confluence
of the incoming front,
I would have built a tornado-proof box
from bone. 
I would have sheltered you until
the gale passed.
I would have wrestled the wind itself
until the eye of the hurricane swerved and you were not drowned.

I could do nothing.

The storm ravaged you.

No weather report warned us.
There was no duck and cover
only corrosion and pain.

I am still here, walking
through the wreckage. 
I hold waterlogged photos
and torn notes,
the remains of our life after
the tempest swept through and tore you

In the aftermath, no green, wet smell of possible regrowth.
I struggle to survive

the widow’s storm season.

(I am at Camp Widow this weekend. I'm wrestling with how to process all of this, being around so many people who know without any question what I am going through. It is liberating and terrifying, relieving and infinitely sad. I will write about it another time. Be well.)

(If you want to read a stunning, thoughtful piece on love and loss, read this piece by Elizabeth Alexander. She says pretty much everything I would like to say.)

(45 weeks. 
I am composed of lightening, driving rain, the occasional beam of unbearable light, shimmering beauty through the dark clouds. I love you.)

(c)2015 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

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True Stories, Honest Lies by Laura S. Packer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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