Deirdre Neilen, PhD: Barbara Crooker is a master poet whose nine previous books of poetry record all aspects of life, love and loss. The poem she gave us, "The Dailiness of Grief," strips away the drama and suspense to reveal the desolation that accompanies the surviving spouse every minute of every day.
"The Dailiness of Grief"
You wake up alone in a bed
that now seems huge, a vast
Atlantic of flannel. No one
has a pot of espresso hissing
on the stove. The lonely
butter, the pot of jam,
the demi-baguette, Halved,
that's what's happened
to everything. No one's
reading out loud articles
from the newspaper I've
already read. No one
interrupts me at my workspace,
saying I need a hug. Later,
there's no one to talk to
at the end of the day. To walk
with after dinner around
the neighborhood, getting
those steps in. Dinner --
what's the point
of cooking for one? But I do,
and light a candle, put on a CD,
jazz or the blues, pour a glass
of wine. Because it goes on,
this ordinary life, day after
captive day. Because somehow,
the love we shared still exists:
a scent, a memory, a photograph,
the breeze that comes out of
nowhere, caressing my arm.
