Come Dream with Me

Come dream with me
like we did before
lay your head on my chest
let our ideas soar
serious and noble
funny and lame
dream with me, babe
join me in this game.
Come share with me
your thoughts 
and your plans
your goals and desires
your innermost man
and I'll share with you
my triumphs and failures
my innermost heart
my deepest desires.
Come dream with me
like we did before
let's take each others hand
and go through that door
of sharing and safety
of triumph and goals
of love and acceptance
of contentment and joy
come dream with me
like we did before.
- T. Deffely
29 August 2012
(for Michael T.)

Thoughts on Grief

Over time, the exquisitely sharp, knife's edge of the unrelenting pain of grief gives way to a duller, less frequent pang which becomes much more difficult to predict.  Who can know when it will glance off the right circumstance, the right emotion, and create a firestorm within the heart yet again?  In the beginning, grief emerges constantly, triggered by a plethora of memories; a scent reminiscent of someone's aftershave, the fragrance of oriental lilies, the splendor of the sky painted perfectly in its sunset, a car show, a fluffy puppy, or prime rib cooked to perfection.  Tears flow unbidden, constant, and at the most inopportune time and there is no safe haven, no refuge, no escape from the storm surge that bombards memory's shore.  Begging for mercy, there is no escape and breathing comes at a painful price.  The only way to survive is to trim the sails and head straight for the wind, to the calmer seas that must surely exist just beyond this island of bereavement to a place no longer obscured by salty tears.  One day, it becomes easier to breathe, the ocean of grief less piercing in its severity.  Memories serve to buoy the spirit, instead of inviting the familiar misery of longing for that which will never be again.  The morning sun casts sparkling hues upon memory's shoreline that has surely changed during the storm, but is still recognizable in the tumultuous surf of the grief-stricken heart.  Perhaps grief then, is not the end, but the beginning of something different, yet still discernible: a melancholy shadow perhaps of what used to be, or the possibility of understanding life from a different perspective.  This new, brilliantly changed, old coastline, offers the same familiar memories, and upon its sands are the castles of a thousand splendid recollections, buttressed by enduring love.  Grief well lived may then bear testimony to a life worthy of remembrance.