Triduum

I.
You died 12 years ago tomorrow.
I thought that I would never stop grieving.
I remember looking for you—
in poetry;
in music.
I burned a CD for your sister
with songs that made me remember you.
Looking back now,
I wonder if giving it to her was cruel.
Did I cause more pain by showing how little I really knew you?


II.
It seems unjust that the anniversary of your death is on Good Friday this year.
There is nothing good about grieving for one you love[d].
We revel in knowing that 3 days hence Christ will rise again,
but my Easter will be bitter.
I am stuck in Saturday,
that mournful milieu where I am trapped between your death and
God’s eventual resurrection.
When will God fulfill his promise?


III.
I confess that I’ve been to your grave
only twice
in the past twelve years.
Last time I could barely remember where your body rested.
“They” say that time heals all wounds,
and I’m scared that these words are true.
Although I don’t want the pain,
I don’t want to forget you.
Can you forgive my neglect?
Can you forgive my forgetting?


IV.
I rest in the hope that there is somewhere else,
some time when I will see you again—
a place where you will be full of life,
of fiery passion—
where I will finally forget the memory
of the icy body they buried in the ground,
clutching a single bloom.
Will you remember me then?


V.
In my heart I planted a flower for you.
Lamprocapnos spectabilis—
an “old-fashioned bleeding heart.”
When we meet again,
I will place it on your grave and never look back.

by Katelyn Willis

composed in memory of Carla Drinkard, d. April 6 2000