Comparing Moving House To Death Of A Loved One

I was not prepared for the deep sadness I would feel when our family home eventually went up for sale.  I knew it would be difficult leaving the house where our children grew up after a lengthy stay of thirty four years but nothing was harder than that first viewing when people I'd never met before began walking through our rooms, of course by then, I'd made myself scarce, the estate agent taking care of everything.  As the weeks are passing it's becoming more painful to see the people arrive, not knowing their comments, if complimentary or disparaging.

I know now what I am feeling is grief, very similar in ways to what I felt at losing close family members and that might seem very strange.  The rollercoaster of emotions is the same.  One minute, everything is fine then, bang, the tears start and you feel your heart being dragged out of your chest.  Yes, saying goodbye is never easy.


Comparing Moving House To Death Of A Loved One

The grief is much the same
Half-hour interval waves of choking sobs and held-in breath
Afraid of what the next out-breath might hold.

Your creation is not of flesh and blood
No bone or sinew
No soul to pray for when your brick walls crumble
Yet within your concrete breast resides more life than sometimes found on busy thoroughfares.

You feel pain too
You sensed my decision to leave you in the care of total strangers
Long before the agent's banner was driven through your landscaped heart.

I walk your rooms
Pass shadowy memory ghosts
Their stale breaths carrying accusations of, deserter! deserter!

I cannot and must not abandon you to the uncertainty of ownership
I pray your tenants will be worthy of you
I pray you will once again absorb the sound of childrens' laughter
And your creaking boards will become familiar footsteps to be avoided.
I pray, I pray.

This grief like an iron dumbbell weighs heavy in my heart.


© Ann Brien 2013


Above image via:  http://mariondigre.blogspot.com


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Lady in the Bath

These words are based on a dream I had back in September 1993.  During that period I documented many dreams all of which were extremely vivid and at times, disturbing.   It was a time when my mind was quite distracted by grief following the death of my dear brother-in-law the previous year.  The cracked paint perhaps in some way mirrored my fragmented thoughts.








Lady in the Bath

The room is long and narrow
At the far end a window faces the claw foot bath
Wherein a cream-skinned lady
Reclines neck-high in rose-bud water
Her black hair draping the porcelain like a sacred alter cloth.

The walls, once vintage green
Now pockmarked by chipping
Resemble an acne-ravished face.

Slowly, the bath tilts backwards
She doesn't bat a damp eyelid
No sensation of crashing through floors
As her womb-like cocoon plummets through emptiness
Above, the lift floor moves further and further away.

The dream evaporates.


© Ann Brien 2013


Above image via:   http://www.davidmaisel.com


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