Batter My Heart, Ravish My Grief

Tonight’s writing class ended with a prompt to render a few lines about a day after which everything was different. Hence:

When Jim was given the dementia diagnosis was one thing. But when I fully internalized what it meant was an entire other thing, the worst thing, knowledge that our lives, my life, changed utterly. My life, in fact, changed in that moment. Jim was effectively a living, angry husk who had to move to a specialized care residence.

I would live alone, I would be alone. I would be lopsided because half of me would be missing. I’d lurch about unevenly since, together, Jim and I made a whole being; OK maybe a person and a half.

I’d be lame, I’d be angry and morbid. My humor would be even blacker. I would ache, and cry into my wine. How will I be recalled to life? Maybe I’ll take a writing class, and batter my heart, ravish my grief. (Cue John Donne)