KT,
The grief from your death we are experiencing seems to move every day. Sometimes quiet with apportions acceptable. For no other reason than death is so present with others also losing loved ones from families and as friends. Other times thunderous, crowding out thoughts and perceptions. For no other reason than it is you who died. Someone so close with memories only to hold and not you. Ever again.
Purpose questioned.
Resolve lingering.
Needs unimportant.
So today’s letter is about grief, as written by Wystan Auden in Funeral Blues published in 1976.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
One day, I will write something uplifting with you as the source. Much like the smile you brought every day. Beaming with brightness and light hearted. As you would want us. But for now, the day brings grief nearly three months following your death.
We love you KT.
Dad