When Mama died, I lost my air

When Mama died, I lost my air. Hit with an anvil of grief. 
In dreams, the rains came. Streets filled with sorrow. 
I’m standing with Thomas at the bridge edge seeking relief. 

The sound of her voice is fleeting. Time is a thief— 
she will never return to me. Thomas says not to follow 
his lead. Don’t hold onto it. It’s heavy. This anvil of grief. 

Without funerary activities, they say, you live in constant disbelief 
your loved one is gone. You seek the Light, if only for a moment, to borrow 
so you don’t follow Thomas to the bridge edge, seeking relief. 

I focus what little energy I have on the children. My chief 
concern. When I’m clear-eyed, I know I’m one of God’s sparrows— 
yes. Mama’s dead. But He will lift the weight of my anvil of grief. 

A flood of sadness fills my days. Is this the end? It is my belief 
Mama’s spirit is heaven-bound, her earthly body is hollow— 
there’s no use running graveside, dragging Thomas, seeking relief. 

Now I know the ways of Thomas’s moods, flitting like a leaf 
in the fall breeze. Grounded. Far away. Grounded. With Thomas, tomorrow’s 
tasks: Kiss our children. Tell them we love them. Lift off our chests the anvil of grief— 
it’s no use if we both run to the Bay bridge’s edge, seeking relief.