Passages: Hollyhocks on the Garden Wall - Softcover

Louise Netherton

9781604941111: Passages: Hollyhocks on the Garden Wall

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1604941111 ISBN 13: 9781604941111

Publisher: Wheatmark, 2008

To say "death is a part of life" does nothing to ease the reality, coming home to a house, no one there to come home to, having experiences but no one to share them with. An empty chair at the table, the empty side of the bed, everywhere -- empty. No razor on his side of the sink (or cosmetics on her side), the empty hole in your heart.

Louise Netherton had been married almost fifty-seven years when her husband lost his battle with cancer. Advised in grief counseling to keep a journal, an overwhelming torrent of emotions flowed into words.

In sharing her experiences of loss through journal excerpts and poetry, Louise hopes to provide comfort to others who are grieving.

"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.

About the Author:

Louise Netherton lives in Green Valley, Arizona. She has three daughters.

Memory - dust

Memory fades - dust blows away.

Memory -- you can't touch it, feel it, or even experience it. You can't enfold it in your arms.

We're physical biological beings. So are all other living creatures on Earth.

What is memory? An evolutionary solution for survival? A process evolving within every living organism to ensure its adaptation in a changing environment? As humans at the apex of evolution, memory becomes not only a tool for survival, but an insurance policy that enables us to come to terms with life's realities.

Is memory a photograph? I want to photograph the sparkle, the love of life in your eyes. I want to hear the sound of your voice, and to again experience the warmth of your body next to mine. I want to photograph the sound of your footsteps coming in the room. I want to hear your voice in your time of need.

I will try to live for the future. You wanted that. "Louise, we'll get through this."

I am afraid my memory will fade away as the dust blows.

***

I am a widow.

Is it possible the word is willow? Weeping branches sweeping earth and sighing in the storm-tossed night.

No, it is widow.

One night death stole away my love, my life, my heart; its icy breath made me a widow.

Being a widow defines who I am, what I do, and my place in society. In ancient cultures widows joined death on the funeral fire. Suddenly being a widow demands an instant adjustment in society. Amid the mourning it is necessary not to drown in self-pity.

Maybe it's a time to rehearse for a new role in life in which the widow plays the starring role. She will also write the play. The play will tell of lonely unfulfilled nights where a new dawn comes too soon. Another day to walk alone, to be the keeper of the keys. Another challenge is what role the widow plays in our culture, her relationships in the past and in the future. The role can intrude on those whose lives were entwined with the widow in the past.

Thinking again of the willow -- it is important to stand alone as the willow tree and the tears will wash away the debris. I remember as a child the willow trees grew along the riverbanks. It is easy to imagine they truly wept tears and they would flow from the river to the sea.

The new role is difficult and different for every widow. The role is interpreted in many ways. The role can be played with dignity, hope, life, or as an empty ghost on life's stage. Some will see this play and be moved and uplifted, or they will feel it is a boring drama, a broken record they have heard before.

A widow's lines aren't written for her. She will have to ad-lib each act. The first act is an empty stage -- with crying in the night, and questions for truth. The second act is a personal interpretation. Will this act address some of the unanswered questions, the search and pursuit for meaning in life? The third act is either a victory when the curtain goes down, or the act ends in submission to the dark forces that were born in the first act. Dark forces that stole the identity of the character.

I am a widow. I have to interpret my new role. I have to write my own script. I will develop the character. My character will either overcome the dark forces or be subdued by inner fears and self-pity. At this writing I am only in the first act. Still the questions come, the time of mourning has not passed. I do not know when I will begin to write the next act.

***

Happiness

Is being in tune with life.
The sights and sounds of the living,
Laughter, quiet whispers,
Tree branches singing in the wind,
Raindrops on skylights.
Frog jumping in pond,
The music of living
Is what defines happiness.
But sometimes when the heart is empty
The soul has fled.
Happiness falls on deaf ears.
Happiness is an echo of the past
No longer brings peace,
No longer defined.
Happiness is like a thin jacket,
No longer warm and fuzzy,
Too thin to protect against icy realities.
Happiness becomes a place
Wherein we try to hide our pain.

***

On a Bus

On a bus�--a vacant seat.
I fantasize
Waiting for the bus to leave.
Man walking towards the bus.
"Hurry! You'll miss the bus!"
But it's not you.
Only a wish --
The seat beside me
Remains empty.
The bus leaves.
The seat empty
As is my heart,
An empty space.

"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.