probably tmi

here’s the plan: i reveal entirely too much, then we all move on, k? see, my anomosity towards aprilfoolishness is deeper than not getting the jokes, it’s really 1984 that’s been my problem this monday. and it was worse than usual this year, i’m otherwise somewhat strong, sort of. well, trying anyway.

i have questionable motivation for posting this, this too much information. it’s as i explained to two of the people that were doing damp-shoulder duty with me today: sometimes, you need to tell people that you really did have a real reason for the whining. like, if you got hurt and everybody called you a whiner till you swaggered out of the emergency room triumphantly waving a cast, crowing, it’s going to need surgery (true story, btw).

shit, that made almost no sense. and nobody called me a whiner except me.

i won’t tell or re-tell the story. i’ll only include a poem about the healing.

requiem in three verses


i sing & sing
this requiem, protesting
the obscene injustice
of death which descends
at random & is not
subject to negotiation

(my life for yours,

the irony of
me surviving you threatens
my already tenuous grasp
of reality: i live
on the edge, been there
for years – so you see,
it easily could have
& probably should have
been me

in spite &/or because of this
i refuse
to let this kill me


then suddenly memory
goes elusive
& i can no longer conjure
your image

this is
perhaps progress

or is it simply
another loss?

i am
creeping numbness
invades my mindless body
with an eerie lack of fear;
no fight, no flight,
just this
foolish fatalism

emotions reduced to
bare bones
in the flash fire

i flaunt my
stark raving calmness
in the face of all this horror
with what must still be
utter disbelief


and time goes
by, bringing
the absence
of obsession
as the scream inside
first subsides

only barely able to
stand, dizzy & dazzled by
the rediscovery
of light & breath

through my inner stillness
within the quiet air
a shiver of guilt
passes, scolding me for
forsaking the pain for
the love that remains

& the mourning fades

seventy two days
of you
were nowhere near
enough but
it’ll have to do

it was, after all,
a lifetime

& so i begin to
lay claim through faith to
the eventual healing
which is hopefully approaching
as this requiem reaches
its end;

winded & spent,
it comes to rest
in peace.

circa 1985, revised 16 oct 93
for alexander wallace moir, 1/20/84 – 4/1/84
(my son)

25 thoughts on “probably tmi

  1. I’ll give you a big huge hug the next time I see you, dear. Thank you for sharing that poem. It was heartwrenching, but very beautiful and haunting, too.

  2. well, no, unless you count the junior high school literary magazine. i was all over that. and some stories in the local paper as a kid, that type of thing.

    i fear rejection. so i publish myself on the ‘net. see links –> over there to “i write poems and stuff”, for what i have online.

  3. I remember talking to somebody about grief and I thought she put it very well. She said :
    “At first it hurts all the time, then gradually it hurts less often. Over time you can remember the person you lost without hurting at all but there will always be days, sometimes for a reason like an anniversary or a birthday or other times for no reason at all, when it hurts just as bad as if it happeneded yesterday. The pain never gets any less, it just hurts less often.”

    Don’t feel like a whiner because you’re hurting for your baby. It still hurts, that’s natural. (((((hugs)))))

  4. ((((((kd and alexander))))))) more hugs still….you are brave and strong and i am grateful that you shared your requiem with us. peace to you, dear kd.

  5. We grow up and old expecting so much to happen, but burying our children is not one of them. Nothing prepares you for that. Nothing could.

    Love to you, kd, and thank you for letting us in …

  6. i wish my mom was around to read this; she lost a son in 1984 too, and it’s true; that is the worst thing that could ever happen. my brother’s death really f*cked with our family. but i appreciate people like you who put things out there (it’s not tmi!) because believe me stuffing it down did not serve our family well. anyway, thanks.

  7. I am deeply sorry about the loss of your baby boy, kd. And what a beautiful way to honor him — and yourself — at this painful anniversary. Thank you for sharing this with us today. *big bear hug*

  8. amazingly enough, i feel much better, having put that out there. something to be said for blogging that makes you feel just a little uncomfortable inside, isn’t there?

    yeah. and thanks, guys.

  9. damn
    i am at a loss for words.
    i was reading, getting all sad feeling…then i got to the end…
    took my breath away.
    BEAUTIFUL words, kd, absolutely beautiful.
    I am sad for your loss. I cant imagine how awful….

    Thanks for sharing though. Makes one stop and think……

  10. i treasure Shelagh’s words, they are very very true. i think the reason it’s come back so strongly is the feeling he’d be an adult now, and i love my daughter so much, she’s grown into such an awesome person, i can’t help but wonder what it would be like if Alex was around too…

  11. simply here to pass on a hug – thank you for sharing your Alexander with us. I have only tasted this from a nana’s heart – time does heal, but I sometimes wonder if we each have the time it will take.
    bless you, kd.

  12. ((((kd & alexander))))
    your poem was beautiful and heartwrenching…

    i won’t pretend to know exactly how this feels for you since i haven’t been there… but i can understand some of the feelings and how much it must hurt. (((kd))) another hug for you, just because.

  13. Ah. Now I understand just a little bit more. I’m so glad that you decided to trust us. And I ache for your loss. How terrible. And how beautiful that poem was. Thanks for telling. And I wish I had asked you what was going on, because as we were emailing, I understood that there was more, but didn’t want to ask more than was appropriate.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *