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The Impossible Dream

Grief is a pain that no heart hopes to gain,

It can eat you alive, it can drive you insane,

It’s a deep, dull ache that hums from your gut,

Stirring awake and with idling strut-

It sneaks up unawares, creeps in and then stares at the depths of your soul,

Yes, stares intently at the blankness…

…. At the emptiness…


..the finality...


Of that great gaping hole…


There are times in my life where I wish that every one of my family members, and even the world at large, had somehow lied to me about the permanence of my mother’s death. I secretly wish that one day she’ll pop up at my door or at my job, with sorrow and guilt in her aged eyes-- ashamed that she had hidden for so long. I imagine that moment, where I can once again see her round, high cheekbones and beautiful smile that looks just like mine. I fantasize about looking at the features of my face in a distorted mirror. I daydream about seeing my mother again.

I imagine how it would be to run into her arms and smell a scent that ignites the deepest nostalgia from the furthest recesses of my mind and my heart. Or to, once again, be held in the nurturingly warm arms that cradled me as a baby, and then a child… but never as a teenager or adult. I daydream of stealing back the years and retrieving every tear that poured out in mourning over who I “thought” that I had lost.

I dream of holding the hands that never got the chance to wipe away the “puppy love” tears or hold mine as I labored through delivering my son. I dream of holding those hands in mine…and bringing those palms to my cheeks, washing them with every cleansing tear of gratitude that I’d cry. I dream of the restoration of every lost year and every year that could have been.

I dream ...the impossible dream.



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