Posts Tagged ‘loss of love’

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

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2016 – a particularly pernicious year

It took so many beloved talents.

It made our hearts hurt,

It made our heads spin…

 

David Bowie and John Glenn, our Starmen waiting in the sky;

Prince, never just our weekend lover;

George Michael, you did belong to us;

Leonard Cohen, our baffled king composing Hallelujah;

Gene Wilder, gave us our pure imagination;

Garry Marshall, oh happy days;

Harper Lee, our mockingbird;

Glenn Frey, flying like an eagle;

Carrie Fisher, our star-born princess;

Debbie Reynolds, good morning, sun beams will soon smile through;

Alan Rickman…always.  How we always wanted you to be 80-years-old, sitting in your rocking chair, reading Harry Potter.

ALWAYS.

 

A cruel year, to take our beloved away so extensively.

Then, I realized…

We grew up in “their” time.

We discovered them as they blossomed and became the world’s.

We waited by the radio listening to Casey Kasem announce their rising number on the top 40 charts –

We went as children to the movies, jabbering in the halls between classes how awesome the latest movie was –

WE knew them, and they were OURS…before they became who our children loved and the generations to follow –

They were ours, and they will be…

ALWAYS.

 

Wendy Giglio Fiore

January 2017

 

 

Longing

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I saw a couple on the bike path, clearly enjoying their vacation on Sanibel. Picking up one of the free Sanibel papers that outlines everything from events to real-estate, all while talking to some loved one on the phone. No need to wait to fill them in on every fun fact of their vacation. Their beloved practically right there with them, sharing in the vacation.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I think about the letters written during the Civil War, the longing that radiated through the writing. With no way to see their dear ones, impossible to hear a sweet voice or speak to those far away, soldiers and families alike relied on maybe one faded photograph and memories. Parents sent children away during times of war, never knowing if they would see them again, all in the hopes they could save the lives of their precious babies.

Today we are so fortunate. We have FaceTime, Skype, and countless other means of immediate “connectedness,” even if someone’s in outer space. We are so blessed.

But lately, part of me wishes for the need of those letters, for that longing to come through in some way.

It’s what I’m feeling lately for all of my friends, family, and all my connections in New England. I’m longing to see them, to hear them, to visit with them and tell them every little fun fact, and hear each and every one of theirs…to be part of their lives once again.

Sullivan Ballou’s letter home to his beloved wife, Sarah

July the 14th, 1861

Washington DC

My very dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days – perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure – and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine 0 God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing – perfectly willing – to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.

But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows – when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children – is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death — and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles have often advocated before the people and “the name of honor that I love more than I fear death” have called upon me, and I have obeyed.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me – perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar — that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night — amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours – always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father’s love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God’s blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.

Sullivan

W. Fiore 2014

Grief

She fades, withers, struggles in HIS absence.
Surviving without her SUN — impossible.
Agony with every memory ~
Every breath painful.

Her body staggers with its light source gone.
How did people endure this?
Women throughout the centuries?
She wouldn’t live, she knew.

No brave countenance seeps inward. Only the deep, raw, gaping wound oozes and exposes itself, revealing the anguish of the gash, as it slowly encompasses the last shreds of strength.

Images blurred ~ tunneled and dark as she withdraws from the presence of consciousness.

Voices garbled ~ small and echoing in the distance as she spins down within the deep recesses of her mind.

No comfort offered by anyone has any affect on the mounting lesion.

Overcome.

She will not overcome.

She despairs,
Reaches up for her soul ~
Some vestige of what once was.

HE was here, just moments ago, just days ago, just years ago.

Grasps at the air

Void
Lost
Gone

Wendy Fiore – 2010