Ludvig van Beethoven

Bach makes me think
Mozart makes me laugh
But Ludvig van Beethoven
You break my heart
In pieces.

My hopes and visions
of our older selves
holding hands and walking side by side,
gentling into our coupled future,
were brutally severed.
We were suddenly cleaved apart
Where once we cleaved so close.

Can I really compare this loss,
as you suggest,
with yours?
Your tender son of son,
so wonderfully wrought and loved
and bravely fought for life
still short of one full year.

Our common ground is loss.
Yes, we grieve. We ache and moan
For what we knew was loan
But yearn for what we had.

We share emptiness.
Our tears are shed with memories
of joyfilled times
and yes, we knew
we could not hold
like photographic image
the essence of those moments
but
we want them
back
again.

Comparison is futile.
My pain is mine alone
and yours
you alone must walk your steps
of grieving sorrows.
And tomorrow will unfailing dawn,
and just as I can smell the blossom now,
three years gone,
may fragrance fill your life again,
dear friend of my heart.

Your son and you will live in hope.
And may you hold that space now so black and deep
in gentle hands
until your senses reawake
and numbness fades
and sweet magnolia bloom
will make you smile again.

With love.

To first love me
as you love me,
is it allowed?

Can I allow love in,
to enter me,
suffuse me and use me
and hold me and
accept me,
‘warts and all’?

This is where it has to start.
Leaving questions and doubt apart.
I begin at the beginning.
Accept your love of me.
I am loveable.
You made me in your image.
Beautiful.

You love me
as I am.
Not as I was or will be.
You married me then and love me still.
Unconditional love.
Then and now until
the day I die or you
because we do not know
what tomorrow brings.
So love me now.

I do.

Daughter of daughter
A phone call.
Now aching arms ironing,
smoothing wrinkles
long to hold
son of son close
to my heart
for solace.
My heart hurts
for daughter
and daughter of daughter
yet to be born –
yet even begun
her tentative life.
Will this be my gift
to her generation?
Inherited loss of babies not formed
and babies lost
and babies longed for.
Will she pay the cost
of barrenness?
I will hold you tomorrow
Daughter.
I will wipe our tears
and hold our pain
in my aching ironing,
our empty arms.
My mother’s will
will not spare you this pain.
It’s your journey to make.
But my arms will hold you
again and again
my heart will ache for you
smoothe you
rock you, soothe you
as we wait
for daughter of daughter.