The Ripening Grief of Aging - a poem

The Ripening Grief of Aging

I’ve been saturated with grief. 
It’s been like a fog surrounding me, 
not without splotches of sunlight and moments of clarity, 
but always lingering 
in the background. 
It’s not bad 
or even uncomfortable,
though I do find myself seeking to avoid it, or solve it.
But grief is more of a process than a thing.
And it ripens like a fruit, over days, not hours.

I first came into contact with this grief by surprise. 
I hurried into my acupuncturist’s office in a frustrated flurry of impatience.
Irritated about the backlog of work, after a week away visiting family
followed by a whole house full of snotty noses and sickly coughs.
The moment the first acupuncture point was awakened 
I burst into laughter, as is often the case.
Congested emotions excited by a moment of attention, 
bubbling their way through my heart.

And then, 
as I settled, 
my body spoke to me
with clarity and honesty
In images of my children, 
growing too fast, 
leaving me with difficult to grasp memories of innocent sweetness 
and replacing themselves with something new,
just as beautiful and just as fleeting.
It’s as though I’m living with two little butterfly-caterpillars 
that are constantly cycling through the phases, 
jumping ahead to the next before I can fully appreciate the present.
New words popping out of mouths 
before I can fully soak in the deliciousness of broken phrases. 

It’s the most delightful heartbreak, 
watching these little beings grow up.

And when, while on vacation, 
this heart wrenching emergence of the new, 
was juxtaposed with the recognition that my parents are growing old, 
I was shaken.

I didn’t realize how upset I was 
until the points on my body that resonate with the metallic notes of grief 
were given attention, 
And tears rolled down my cheeks 
in a much needed catharsis.

At first I descended into a murky bog of meaninglessness. 
Not numb, but raw,
like an open wound. 
Sitting with the discomfort 
of something that hasn’t yet healed.
Arguing with myself 
over how much to 
try to “be with it” 
and how much 
to “just move on”
Until eventually, 
after days that felt long and slow despite the brevity of daylight,
Something shifted, 
though nothing changed.

And here I sit. 
Aware of the changing tides in a new way.
That much more human, 
that much more alive,
That much more broken,
And that much more whole.