Somewhere inside me, even though it is clearly evident that she is no longer around, I am still denying the fact that she's gone. That she has already been cremated.
Strangely, just a few weeks before, Gen was sharing with me the poem One Art.
One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
How true is that?
It is possible now to think and write of it without tears rolling down like crazy. But the pain stays.
The art of losing is in fact, hard to master.
So much I could have done, yet didn't.
So much I could have noticed, yet I saw nothing.
She was crying for attention, all the way till the end, yet I couldn't tell.
Huh. this really fits I was not waving, but drowning.
My sweet little rabbit. I am sorry. For not being a good owner. For not letting you out when I should have. For not appreciating your presence in the kitchen, no matter how small it was.
It is ironic how large your presence becomes now that you're gone. Simple actions such as cutting fruit pinches my heart. Because I want to turn around and give you the first bite of the fruit before that greedy son of yours comes hopping by.
But then I remember; you're not there to eat it anymore.
I search my phone desperately for a recent photo of you, and I can't find one. You left me so suddenly, it is hard to accept. The regrets just keep piling up.
I wish it were a dream. I wish that time could turn back. To hold your warm body and shower you with the affection you deserved before your last breath. Oh, how I wish could.
It was a lie, to say that I have gotten over it. To say that no tears would be shed as I remember you.
As I grieve your passing, I pray and hope that you're up there somewhere with Rabbit and Dale, in large fields and the strength of a young bunny, enjoying the life that you so rightly deserve.
Love,
Yan Er
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