A Sense of Lost by Laverne Zabielski
I follow her everywhere.
If she says this will be good, I believe her.
I have no expectations.
She mingles among friends, old and new, having driven up the mountain to gather in a room filled with writers desiring to put words, find words, discover answers to questions. With age now upon her, questions traverse her veins. So many. They hover in her inner crevices, the crease of her arm, her elbows, the back of her knee, between her thighs. You would think, she says, by now I would not have so many questions. You would think, she says, by now I would have answers. What’s the point of life, she asks, if answers never appear?
If she says this will be good,
I believe her. I have no expectations.
I follow her everywhere.
In the movie last night she cried when the young man insisted on a viewing, the casket be opened, against better judgment. She never insisted. She never wanted to see his face. She wanted to remember
the way she saw him last at dinner, the Tuesday before the Wednesday
he made the decision to leave without even saying goodbye. Death by suicide has a strategy. Don’t tell anyone ahead of time. Make a plan. Write a note. And then. . . and then . . . That’s the part she can’t wrap her mind around. The part where the deed is done. The knife penetrates. Does it take courage? Maybe it was easy since he was paralyzed.
I believe her. I have no expectations.
If she says this will be good,
I follow her everywhere.
She drove out the country road to the gathering to stop the thought contained in the conflict of having no answers. She entered the cozy room filled with comforting voices and knew there would be no answers there. She would leave knowing no more than when she arrived. Her veins would still be red with blood unseen and she would drive back down the mountain. At home she would greet her dog who loved her and she would say I love my house, my friends, their stories. She knows this because it has happened before and before as she always turns to her writing.
If she says this will be good,
I believe her. I have no expectations.
I follow her everywhere.
Like that day in his kitchen after he was gone. I found the sheath to the knife on the kitchen floor. I picked it up, tossed it in the trash. I did not want her to see it. She would crumble. My job was to protect her, wrap my soul around her, let her sadness swallow her so she would not be tempted. For that we travel together. We do workshops together and write poetry. We answer each other's questions.
I follow her everywhere.
“I’m exploring the relationship between the voice in our head that follows us and protects us and who we are in everyday life. It’s clear to me but I never was sure it translated to the page. Hence, under the bed this poem remains.”
Laverne Zabielski, a writer and artist, received her MFA in Writing at Spalding University in Louisville in 2004. Her poems have been published in The American Voice, The Thinker Review, The Sun and Southern Exposure. Her memoir, The Garden Girls Letters and Journal was published in 2006 by Wind Publications. she/her Kentucky/Shawnee Land/USA