Catching Up, II

On Sunday, I attended a Women Writers in Bloom Poetry Salon in Brooklyn(link). Nandi Kaye led us through a mental, then we wrote, then we wrote some more and we had a physical writer warmup. Here is what I wrote.

I

I remember because that is all I have left. Someone once wrote, "Death ends a life, but not a relationship...." Death ends the accumulation of new memories, while the old memories remain as fresh or as stale as they want to be. Memories hide in the weeds of my forgetfulness, they jump out to startle me as I lie abed. Memory cannot wrap arms around me, cannot kiss gently, or passionately. Memory rouses grief and mourning, but forgetfulness erases life, us, me. Memory wants me to forget loss, to move on, to move ahead. But memory also anchors me to the moment of death, with a rope stretching, stretching, stretching without breaking.

II

Happiness comes from my pink hair. Jack loved my pink hair. When strangers say they love my pink hair, I feel 50 degrees warmer. I glow. I feel connected. My pink hair is the magic token I've looked for all my life. My pink hair is the guardian angels protecting me from despair. My pink hair is punk, is rock and roll, is a happiness drug. My pink hair matches all of my favorite clothes, well, almost.