Here’s a poem I wrote touching on grief — specifically on how the past triggers it. Hope you enjoy!

Shards

As I flip through old photographs of me bouncing on your knee, 

playful and joyful with a one-toothed grin plastered across

my round, chubby face that burst with innocent glee.

The first thought that zips through my mind is oblivion. It tosses 

and tumbles around, wrapping itself around my brain, 

shaking it, freeing

suppressed questions, frustrations… 

Why am I so naive, thinking

There would be a happy ending? 

The worst things pounce 

like a beast. Stabbing, 

Inflicting, a sudden, 

deep pain – not the dull pressure 

of needles, or a bee sting 

which eventually fades, 

Surprise adds a new layer of 

anguish. 

That’s exactly what your passing was like,

the initial few days so clear, yet so sharp. 

The shards 

of that frame – those hours, minutes, seconds – 

dig in, drawing out the misery –

the knots in my stomach, 

the fast heartbeat. 

I tried wrapping the wound, 

but it’s still there. The shards 

are trapped. 

It isn’t life that triumphs 

over death, 

but death that triumphs 

over life.

All stories come to an end, 

and death is the last page. 

But doesn’t the end define the 

story – don’t we live 

for the happy ending?

The shards continue to press  

because of what was written 

on that last page, 

and how I couldn’t change it.  

I replay the same stories from the past, 

putting the pieces together, 

convincing myself this was 

the destined fate; 

almost like cracking a mystery 

thriller in which the final verdict 

was never meant to be reached 

by me. I blindly accept

this verdict; after all, 

no rationalization 

exists for this ending. 

All I can do is put 

the shards together

forming a picture 

– the story – of 

what happened before 

the end. These shards 

don’t press; they come 

together to form a 

mosaic. One that I’ll 

glance at to know 

you still haven’t left.