As the torrential rain falls on the skylights above me, I sit and think. I think of where I am. I think of what brought me to this point. I am particularly aware of the recent news. Aware of the tears I shed for a man that I had never met, but thought of so fondly. Anthony Bourdain was an icon to me. I followed his life and enjoyed his work. Where was his support, where was his family, where was his strength?
As I sat heartbroken and pondering on this dark and rainy evening, this is what poured out of me. I guess it's free style poetry. I'll be honest, I don't really understand poetry. It's not my typical writing. It's very personal, it's very real and it makes me feel very raw and exposed.
You don't see me cry, but I do.
What is strength?
I am the one that handles everything.
I will take care of the details.
I will solve the problems.
What is strength?
I can't pinpoint the moment when I became an adult.
Was it when my mother died?
Was it when my father moved in?
What is strength?
My Aunt Peg was the epitome of strength to me.
The perfect mother, the perfect wife.
She handled everything with ease and grace.
When she tried to take her own life, the very foundation of my world was rocked.
What is strength?
Kittybell was my friend, my confidant.
She fought her cancer alongside my husband. They were chemo buddies.
Even in the face of her disease, she supported me, held me up, helped me find the will to soldier on.
She lost her fight. I lost her.
What is strength?
Is it the ability to put one foot in front of the other. Every day. Every long and difficult day?
Is it the ability hide your pain from those that need you more than you need yourself.
Is it caring for everyone?
Or is it simply the ability to depart gracefully?
