February has been an especially cruel month to this community.
I don’t know why, but I’m a little shocked at how flattened I am by this news – I’ve mostly lurked at Mo’s blog for a long time, and she’s commented on mine once or twice at most, I think. Not a lot of interaction, really, but I am totally failing at my no-crying-at-work rule. Just goes to show how powerful the community is and how meaningful sharing these ALI experiences is – all of our hearts are breaking for her, I know….so much love to her, Schmerson, and Schmaby.
Esperanza wrote a post that bravely questioned why we are so, well, flattened by these awful tragedies.
The truth is, we are all friends. Real friends, not just “Internet friends.” Even though in most cases we have never met face-to-face, it’s like we are in the same sorority or dorm floor in college. Separated from friends and families, we share our histories (about ALI, instead of the douchey guys my friends and I used to obsess over at University), we listen to each other’s stories, we laugh. And when one of us is hurt, we cry.
And today we are thinking of our friend Mo, and our hearts are broken. I want to dedicate this poem to the tremendous Mommy Odyssey, her gorgeous husband and their beautiful baby boy. We love you, we ache for you, we are so angry that you have to endure this and we send all of our strength and kindness and all the best parts of ourself to you. We know it’s not enough, dammit, not even anywhere near enough.
Funeral Blues, WH Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.