And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.
—Haruki Murakami, from “Kafka on the Shore”
•••
I barely remember the storm,
though I know it’s embedded
in my bones,
and in poems attest to unrelenting
grief in the immediate after,
but dear one,
to say that, even 23 years after
this day when I sat on the floor,
your coldcold foot
in my lap, realizing This is it,
what you knew was coming,
what I tried to ignore—
what stays with me is how
I felt shot out of a cannon
into that tempest.
my molecules scattered, and,
so slowly so slowly, reassembling
into a being that looked like me,
sounded like me, but was
irrevocably changed. How, then,
did that storm
fuse your molecules with mine,
settle you into my bones,
where we have
walked together ever since?
•••
In memory of Clifford Ernest Polland
May 21, 1952–March 18, 2001
Güd wrtr 
What a marvelous description of those initial stages of grief!! And also what happens in the long term.
what stays with me is how
I felt shot out of a cannon
into that tempest.
my molecules scattered, and,
so slowly so slowly, reassembling
into a being that looked like me,
sounded like me, but was
irrevocably changed.
Beautiful poem Jan!! And how I adore what those molecules reassembled into.
Awww… thanks so much, dear Sue, as your molecules must be reassembling themselves right now. (I, too, adore your molecules, however they reassemble!) Hugs!
These poems are so tender-powerful and deeply real. Thank you, dear one. My heart knows this in-the-bones journey — and accompanies you!