The day we learned

Dear Readers,
I'm learning that its very difficult for me to process things. One of my favorite professors is my poetry teacher, Dr. Willis. He publishes poetry pretty frequently, and most of his recent work has been about the Tea Fire - his house burned down. I think poetry is a beautiful way to express your deepest thoughts, since many of the things we know about ourselves are only snapshots. While the fire was a traumatic experience, I have yet to put into words some of the most difficult emotions I face. I think one of the things I've always wanted to have an outlet for is the experience of dad's cancer - being able to put that experience down into words, and words that mean something to me, has been one of the hardest things. And while I don't feel like I've hit the mark in this poem, I've come the closest so far in remembering that experience.

So here it is; the rough draft of my mental snapshot:

The day we learned

Joy eluded us in that moment,
slipped softly out the glass doors
without so much as a parting
word. I remained with the cold sunlight
that somehow pushed its way
through the black glazed windows.

Chrysanthemums exploded outside the cement,
blinding pink, a defense mechanism against
sticky-fingered guests. They drooped a little
with the March heat. Water would have helped.

That day we learned that germs
can’t travel through white, and hospitals
beds can resemble coffins under the right
circumstances. But he wouldn’t go in one,
wouldn’t stop the day for a moment
to take off the stiff lab coat
and enjoy the weight of the full
April sun which burst through
my open windows where I sat
thinking not of philosophy, nor
the fact that my yellow roses were
starting to wilt from lack of water.