TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown.

It happens when you least expect it: grief knocks you down like a rogue wave. You’re going about your day, and you hear a song that reminds you of someone you lost, or you see a stranger in a crowd that looks so much like the person, you’re startled. Or maybe you see a show or even a commercial you used to laugh about with the person, or you take a bite of a meal that reminds you of them, or your social media memory shows you a past moment of happiness with the person. And there it is, the pain of grief.

We know holidays and anniversaries will be difficult: Mother’s Day after you lose your mom, birthdays after your loved one is gone, Thanksgiving with the family around the table and some beloveds missing. We know this pain.

But grief isn’t something we can schedule. It’s not reserved for certain days or times. Grief sneaks up on us in the smaller moments. Or, maybe it doesn’t sneak up on us at all, because it’s been with us all along. It may feel like a rogue wave breaking over us, knocking us down, leaving us gasping — but really it’s the water we swim in, day in and day out.

That may sound like a dark, depressing thought, but I don’t think of it that way. Grief is with us all the time because love is with us all the time. Grief touches every part of our lives, because love touches every part of our lives. The more you love someone, the more you grieve their absence.

Today’s poem finds the speaker in the grief — and love — of her daily life.

Young Widow at the Kitchen Window
by Donna Spruijt-Metz

—one plate in the sink
after breakfast—one coffee mug—
Once over-full, my shopping cart
now near empty—these days

I find myself outside
of my body—watching
and narrating: “the young widow
crosses the living room.”
But I am not young—only
new.

Every morning, I asked you
“Want an egg?” and you would say
“Sure”—or “No”—
but that last morning you said
“Why not?”

so there were two plates
in the sink when the EMT came
             [and said the words: “We can’t help him.”]
and the police after them
             [to ascertain that I hadn’t murdered you]
and the mortuary after them
             [but they couldn’t lift you—they had to call 
             for help]
and the rabbi was there and we chanted
the Shema but you never had a chance
to say the Vidui—I think I know

this poem is about one
plate in the sink—but the rest—
what shall I do with the rest?

"Young Widow at the Kitchen Window" by Donna Sprujit-Metz. Used by permission of the poet.