Dear Darling...

Cherry

By Silver Spun Sand

Thu, 20 Mar 2014
  • 1722 reads
6 comments
 
Please excuse my writing;
I can’t stop my hands from shaking
‘cause I’m cold and alone tonight
Olly Murs
 
I didn’t think you’d leave...not that evening.
Not that soon. Couldn’t you have held on;
waited until I was there?
 
Why the haste? Why then? Why not 
the next afternoon?  I'd planned to be there
with it being New Year's Day.
 
Why choose its eve?  All those fireworks
going off in other people’s gardens,
in other people’s lives.
 
Why weren’t the champagne corks popping
where you were?  Why did a hospice
plastic cup suffice
 
and why was water what you wanted, needed?
Why did you go and remind me of when you’d
cry out in the night...either you or she
 
and I’d creep to your bedroom, sit on the edge
of your bed, reach through the darkness,
with a glass of water you were dying for,
or so you said.
 
At the end...why was it her hand you held?
Why your sister’s, not mine...and why,
I ask myself, am I asking
you why?
Certificate 15
Poem
Silver Spun Sand Poems
Spiritual
Love
Autobiography

Comments

Submitted by grover on

Nice images - water in a plastic cup on new years eve. What a sad goodbye. 

 

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Thanks, grover...and yes, it was. 

If you're interested in reading the story behind this poem, it's all there in 'Fireworks in the Snow'.  A story of one remarkable lady who just happened to be my daughter.

Tina 

 

 

 

 

Submitted by Rigel on

Why? Indeed.  Been there, myself more than once.

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

If we're being truthful, haven't most of us?

 

Submitted by Bee on

There is such anguish in this. So often missed - that last moment, the last chance to be there. But it happens so often that I believe that it's difficult for someone to leave when certain loved ones are present and that they can only let go in their absence. So glad she had a hand to hold. So well expressed, a painful but beautiful read.

Bee

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Thank you for that, Bee.  A difficult poem to write, and even more difficult to come to terms with.

Tina