Layers of Healing

I have written 6 poems since Rick died.  Just looking at the titles of the poems gives me insight into my progression of my layers of healing. 

The first one, written on July 15th, was called I Don't Know How to Say Good Bye. I was raw...and I really and truly didn't know how to say good bye. Nothing felt right.

On August 30th, I wrote the poem Touch. I described the things I wanted... I wrote about connection and encouragement from beyond. 

On September 4th, I wrote the poem Ashes to Wind, when I was thinking about scattering Rick's ashes in Ounquit, Maine. I described the feelings of a day that has not yet come, and the emotions and power of letting go. 

On September 23rd, I wrote Don't Rush Me, a poem that turned out to be a letter to myself. I worked through employing patience and channeling healing. 

On September 30th, I chopped and changed a poem from 2006 I called Recounting Autumn, tweaking it to fit all that life has thrown at me. It spoke of change and fresh perspective. 

And on November 10th, I wrote The Pull, a poem about grief driving fear, quests, and life. 

I noticed something. The first three poems use the word "you" as in me addressing Rick. I write as though to him. By the fourth poem, I am writing to myself. I even call myself by name. By the fifth poem, I am nostalgic, writing about myself rather than Rick or grief itself. By the sixth poem, though I write about grief and all of my emotions as I move onward, what's obvious is not the grief part but the moving part. I begin and end the poem with the same two lines (which are repeated elsewhere in the middle as well):

It flows and ebbs, and ebbs and flows;

The pull of grief, it comes and goes.

And so, it seems clear now. Grief is still here... but sometimes it is not.