Sometimes feel her with me when I feel a bit sad or a bit lonely,

Terry TrainorStarred Page By Terry Trainor, 1st Jan 2015 | Follow this author | RSS Feed | Short URL http://nut.bz/28_5htmp/
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Poetry

A tale of a man believes his long departed wife is still with him. Strange things happen which he can't explain. This man is not in any way scared of his perceived presence, in fact he's glad. I hope you enjoy the tale.

An old standard lamp stands in the corner

An old standard lamp stands in the corner the sixty watt bulb is dim but it’s cheap to run,
Anyway the twilight glow makes everything seem cozy and it fits with the old furniture,
The embers in the fire glow weakly under grey char, the odd flame leaps up for a second,
Wisps of thin grey smoke are drawn up the chimney the end of the long day is now near.
Dim light cast shadows of the treasures in my sitting room, although it’s the only room,
Antimacassar linen on arm rests, on head rests of the furniture used to be white as snow,
Now they’re full of tea stains and the odd bit of mustard from my bacon sandwich earlier,
Cocoanut hair filled cushions have now molded there selves to the shape of my body.

Lino on the floor is turning up at the corners



Bits of paper on the sideboard mounting, up some I deal with, mostly just don’t bother,
Letters in a drawer never opened every so often just pick them up, throw them away,
Lino on the floor is turning up at the corners the middle has a warn path to the kitchen,
Sometimes take a good look at the place and make a mental note to spring clean it all.
Aint like when the misses was about, a place for everything and everything in its place,
Blimey, drop a bit of paper or something she’d be on you like a ton of bricks or worse,
Good old stick though, put up with me for 65 years, she even new what I was thinking,
Made everyone wipe their feet or take their shoes off, that’s when this was a real home.

Tears fall down my face, she holds my hand



Used to polish the front step, took no grief from the milkman if he added a few pence,
Had to clean the windows once a week, on a Monday I think, when she did the washing,
Very pretty girl in our younger days, had the face of an angel, not the temper of one,
Still, that was how things were, listen to the radio, the Home Service, or read a book.
Sometimes feel her with me still and maybe she is, when I feel a bit sad or a bit lonely,
But she’s the young wife not the old one, always kind and even felt her arms round me,
Sounds daft, if I can’t find something it usually turns up on the mantelpiece, strange?
Another thing, when it’s quiet I can here her singing, have to listen hard, but it’s her,
And, I’ve never told anyone, I’m in bed and just dropping off there’s a kiss on my cheek,
I know she’s there, sometimes on me own, tears fall down my face, she holds my hand.
When you’ve been with someone all those years they don’t just go and leave you alone.

Do they?

The Summary




The dead are aware, however, that those of us left behind are having a much harder time dealing with what we perceive as a loss, because we, the living, think the person is gone to a galaxy far, far away. Our dead loved ones try to get our attention, to let us know they are just fine and in the sky with your old do. For them it’s like looking through one way glass where they can see us but we can’t see them. So they wave their arms, stomp up and down, scream to us, but we can’t hear them. How frustrating do you think that is for them?

So next they try getting our attention in other ways. They send us dreams telling us they’re fine. We discount those as “just dreams.” They knock pictures off the wall. We discount those as the house settling or the kids running amok. They waft specific smells our way. “Does anyone smell freesia? Didn’t grandma like freesias? Weird.” They put significant songs on the radio, drop change in front of our feet, make the rocking chair rock all by itself, and we chalk it all up to imagination or wishful thinking. So finally they just sit and hold us with their incorporeal arms, trying to comfort us physically without a physical body to do it with.

And they listen. They listen to our prayers and eulogies, our anger, our sadness. And they watch. They watch us cry, sleep, and cry some more. They watch us slowly put our lives back together. They feel joy when we have a victory over our grief.

Erin Pavlina
Pictures from Google copyright free.

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Comments

author avatar Terry Trainor
1st Jan 2015 (#)

Thanks Peter.

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author avatar Sivaramakrishnan A
18th Jan 2015 (#)

I have similar beliefs as told in the quote at the end of your wonderful poem, Terry. The dead can help us if we want them to, believe and feel they are with us. But then we should prove worthy for their efforts - siva

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