the house of grief
the house of Grief smells
like bacon in the pan,
where the Daughter cooks
for the Mother who lost
her own Mother yesterday.
the lights are low
as if the Grief
cannot be seen this way—
as if the space
this woman of faith filled
could be left, ignored in shadows
the Daughter stands
over spitting bacon
and chopped peppers,
and she stirs frantically,
hoping the smell of the bacon
can drive the thoughts
of what it must be like
far, far, away.
when all we project
in the future is loss,
like a dark night
with no moon or stars—
how could we be
unafraid?
projecting fear
is easier than
anticipating joy—
one imagines loss
and builds a fortress
‘round a wounded heart
the other sees
the bird at the window
as a messenger of hope
that devastates all else.
I wrote this poem when my maternal grandmother passed away just before the COVID shutdown in March of 2020. A woman of incredible faith, Maryann Samms is still so deeply missed by so many.