Silence from the other side
and I can't get through to you,
no matter how much you pretend nothing is wrong

A pile of magazines on the table,
waiting for the right time
to break the glass floor below us to Hell
to break the tension and the silence
that has come between us for so long

Shooting from my penthouse down to the core of the earth
and the core of your heart, where I will put myself on your level
and not look down on you, and meet you for the last time

I watch your ghost drift about
in this house made of glass.

Folding laundry, kissing the kids,
crying alone in the empty California king.

I see everything, I see your grief.
That reluctance to move on.

Autumn buries the lawn with the dead.
Winter buries the dead and unburied.

By the time spring arrives,
the concrete has set in the basement.

Nobody will know why my family left.
Only that they're gone and forgotten.

A late Halloween gift. Iron Noder 2017

In a glass house everything is seen.

I am wondering how to let go of old grief. Family who are not dead but have a role for me that I don't want to play. I walk away, wondering. I still love them and grieve. How do I transform the grief?

Buddhism says to let go of attachments.

It is time to let go of the attachment of wishing that we would reconcile, that they would see me, that they would speak and listen. I want to live in a glass house, honest, real, feel my emotions, even if it would mean living alone. My cat accepts me lonely or happy. The trees accept me lonely or happy. The house accepts me grieving or laughing. The universe is unperturbed by anger or joy.

I have forgiven them all but that is not reconciliation. But now I stretch to transform: thank them for helping me to let go of the attachment to family, to my assigned role, to rebellion in that role, to them someday seeing me. I let go and thank them: that I have known them, that I love them, that I can treasure memories of each individual. I thank them for letting me love and let go.

I live in a glass house.

Everything is seen.

Over the Rhine: Days like this.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.