My dear bro took his life in the year 2000.
He was, besides my bro, a dear dear friend and confidante and fierce and loyal companion through anything.
My life was irrevocably changed.
Here’s a series of three poems, spread out over many years, that I’ve written since he died about grief, opening with the epitaph I wrote for him which sits at the base of a still young elm tree in Mt Pleasant Cemetery (a favourite playground and haunt of his in his wild youth) in Toronto
James’ Epitaph
Dear, dear, son,
dear, dear brother.
deeply loyal friend and courageous companion;
you are so deeply loved.
The room for you in all of us
can never be filled.
It has become a garden
in all our hearts
where still you blossom on.
Adieu good knight and dear one,
And may you rest in peace, peace, peace.
Your blossoms flourish on…
Dear bro,
I can’t let you go.
Your blossoms flourish on –
black roses
tipped violet –
arising from the cracks in my heart,
overgrowing when the scars re-open.
No art or science or love or play
can ever make the pain go away.
The roots of the rose go deep
and its thorns,
grown into my heart,
dig and bleed a little each beat.
But this pain is,
beyond worry and woe,
time or space,
the place where we can always meet.
Grief’s Garden
Grief is more than a living thing.
Untended it does not die;
it grows thorns, then horns,
sticking deep inside.
Grief’ll tear you assunder,
suck you down and under,
unless you can see it through into
a new start.
A clear cut burn
from which a new species can emerge.
A chance to turn the soil over
and start again.
Well tended,
well cultivated,
it’ll blossom into your heart,
a tender vine climbing,
its flowers bejewelling
the silent garden
of your pain.