I've taken on another commission for poetry intended for the loved one of the deceased. The last time I did this now feels like a precipitating event for Mr. PNU's stroke. Or perhaps preparation.
Last night my husband woke suddenly from a dream. He said someone, like his father or his uncle, stood next to his head at the side of the bed and called clearly, "Son!" He said even after waking he felt that whomever had spoken did not go away, although he could not see the source of the voice.
I realize I'm still on edge from the trauma of last year's medical emergencies. Many caregivers report the same anxiety. When does the other shoe drop?
I'm not ready. I don't know if I will ever be ready.
So I write poetry invoking the voice of one passed to speak calm to the ear of a living lover. The first anniversary of his death is June. It was sudden, after 29 years of a storybook second marriage. They are Japanese Hawaiians. And, I think appropriately, I've chosen to undertake a small collection of memorial tanka.