Felt Absence

Until you lose

a child, a breast, a home

you do not know

in your bones

in the delicacy of words

how to fully be

with someone

walking this path.

I remember

feeling paralyzed

and wildly inadequate

when my nephew

took his life

I didn’t know what

to say

and said nothing

thinking my voice didn’t

matter, thinking the

family had plenty of support.

I remember

a dear friend surrendering

both breasts in exchange for her life

and having no idea

how to help her hold this

loss, this gift, this holy transformation.

I slipped away into busy,

into believing my absence

wasn’t noticed.

I didn’t know how

to ask, “How is your grief?” or

“Tell me what it’s like to lose

your breasts?” or “How has this

experience changed you?”

I remember

the day my friend’s house

went up in flames in the Oakland fire

and we rushed to give her clothes

and books and food,

but did not simply hold her,

or create a space for her grief,

to honor the immensity of her loss.

The mistake I’ve made

over and over again

is to believe my voice, my love,

my part in the fabric of

a loved one’s life,

are insignificant and not missed.

I believed it was better

to say nothing than to

get it wrong.

I believed I couldn’t ask

for guidance,

couldn’t speak directly to the loss,

that saying I love you,

you are in my heart

wasn’t enough.

Here’s my truth,

gleaned from the depths

of this journey of grief

and being broken open;

Every being

in the matrix

of family and community

is felt.

You are felt.

Those that step forward

with love offerings, food

and kind words form

a net that catches me when

the storms of mourning lash out.

Those that hang back

out of fear or inadequacy

need to know

they are missed.

It would be hard to hear

that a grieving friend was disappointed

by my absence,

yet if I’d known,

if we weren’t so scared

to speak the truth,

it wouldn’t have taken

the death of my son

to teach me how to be

a better human.