by Eva Matsuzaki
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When my mother
Didn’t answer the phone,
And when I went to her apartment,
And found her dead
On the floor,
I will never forget
That milli-second, that hour,
That day.
To this day, 21 years later
I can relive that time.
I can weep, weep inside.
And there is no joy.
When my husband died,
In a small curtained room
At VGH,
When I kept holding his hand
Even when I saw
His breathing had stopped,
To this day, 6 years later
I can relive that time.
I can weep, weep inside.
And there is no joy.
Do I hold my sorrow
Too close or too far?
It is where it is,
In its rightful home.
I am the vessel.
Some days the sorrow
Plays push-and-pull
And allows my fond memories
To linger, linger inside,
And bring me joy.
Eva Matsuzaki is a past cancer patient, a past Callanish participant, a past retreat dishwasher, (so many pasts), a current board member, an occasional blog writer, a gratitude card writer, (and so many futures!).