I Can’t Write by Janet Jones

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I can’t write about you yet.

My grief would melt the page

And the ink would run together

Until the words mirror my tears.

 

I can’t write. Not yet.

 

So small so long ago.

A little ball of fur with big brown eyes

And a stump for a tail.

 

No. Not yet. I can’t write about you.

 

They say…who are they again?

They say to write your pain

Carve your grief on the page

It will absorb the tears, not melt.

 

Nine years of furry joy…so short.

Little legs crouch in play

A stuffed toy dangles from a bearded muzzle

A low play growl I can’t resist

I melt and crouch down too

In joyful chase.

 

Run Buffett Run!

 

No. I can’t write.

 

Such joy in the house

A joy I took for granted.

Not knowing how bereft I would be

When those brown eyes closed

In final sleep.

 

I can’t write about you…not yet.

 

Have to lay down the grief…I know.

Rainbow bridges and doggy heaven

A stumpy tail wagging…I’m okay mom.

 

Someday I’ll write about you.

 

But not yet.