It has been a sad, hard day. Nothing new has happened. All of the goodness from my last few posts remains. But I have learned not to take the lightness of one day as a sign that the next will be light. This day is heavy with the weight of what has been taken. I have begun to accept that there’s no avoiding these days. No barreling through them. No productivity aside from the productivity of grief.
But J checked the mail this afternoon – something I lacked the energy to do – and found a gift for me. It’s a chapbook by a poet, Anna Ross, entitled Hawk Weather. In 2009, Anna Ross met her grief with a pen, or a pencil, or key strokes. In 2011, a stranger – a woman I’ve spent maybe five hours with, an intense and successful writer/scholar – thought it might help me. It seems to be the woman’s own copy, as it’s stained from previous readings. There may be no grand plan here. Some days are sad, and hard, and heavy. But on some such days, strangers send you poems.