Epistolary
by Ellaraine Lockie

Dear Carl Sandburg,

Your fog doesn’t come on little cat feet. Nor does it move on.
Rather it harbors in my mind.

A thickness I can’t see through.
Although I know what is on the other side:

A sky as clear as Baccarat glass.
A commuter train at 70 mph.
My medicated husband standing by the tracks.

Here’s the part where your fog descends. Thicker than blood
and skin. More dense than eyes, muscles and tendons.

Heavier than my heart can hold. Than my mind can accept
after he hurls himself onto the tracks.

It’s been months and your fog has gotten fatter with fatigue,
remorse, memory loss, insomnia, depression.

The therapist says: That fog is a luxury many don’t have.
Minimum wage workers who are lucky to get a day off
for the funeral. People who can’t afford the fog.

He says grief is a gift that money buys. Friends send food,
flowers, cards, emails and donations that help keep this gift alive.

But I need to tell you, Mr. Sandburg: Your fog doesn’t come
on little cat feet. It comes on the claws of a tiger.

Respectfully yours,

Ellaraine Lockie

________________________________

With a nod to Carl Sandburg’s “Fog” and “The Right to Grief.”




"Epistolary" was first published in MacQueen's MacQuinterly.



 


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