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But yes,
Regret has knocked on my door
The time it accuses me of wasting
is not false, but
is not whole
For I would not have the privilege
of regrets company
If I was efficient in my youth
so,
what is waste?

Morning whispered the blades awake
The sky a dull steel without song
Winter’s heavy gray fallen upon an anvil

Echoless blanket to the horizon
The fire swept to ash,
Unknowable except to the howling wind
Scattering you far from this hearth.
Home left these bones a house
Nothing left but stray strands
Blanched to erase and colored to cover
Glistening threads with which to weave
Bridges to the ever after

I thought my heart would break that day
when the doctor told us the news.
I watched you fade and drift away.

He said the cancerous cells may
have spread, there was no time to lose.
I thought my heart would break that day.

The dread disease moved in to stay,
few treatment options left to choose.
I watched you fade and drift away.

And when your skin had turned to grey
you begged me feed you pills and booze.
I thought my heart would break that day.

We tried to keep your pain at bay,
a shell made up of bone and bruise.
I watched you fade and drift away.

At last, no demons left to slay,
hundreds of mourners filled the pews,
I thought my heart would break. That day
I watched you fade and drift away.

Though I cherish
the quiet I have earned,
there are days I miss
the whisper of animals
all around me

Youthful energy
bounding in,
I’m easy to please
I’m easy to forgive

Nervous purr, saying
Do what you must,
just be quick
just be gentle

Next come the sick
cradled in worried arms –
such a clamor of voices,
and love that fills the room

I must listen carefully
as hands move head to tail
in practiced form,
searching for hidden clues,
searching for how to heal

But most of all, I miss
the old and infirm
who speak to me
in quiet tones
of all their frailties

Then lay their
weary heads in my lap
telling me,
It’s time
to go home

All the whispers I have heard
All the animals I have known

“The sand blown by winds, falling into mournful eyes,
Everyone can see, I’m—waiting for you.”

It’s been twelve days since you leave.
You said, now that we have a home,
You need to catch lots, lots of fish and shrimp,
To care for me, “your beloved girl.”
I smiled as I saw you off,
But my heart had already sailed away with you.

Each time you set sail,
Out to the sea, and return,
You are the world, heart of the ocean.
But I stand on the shore,
Watching, and waiting for your
Return with the tides of time.

The winds always bring the sand,
Drifting through my memories,
Everyone knows, I’m—missing much of you.
The salty breeze carries your scent,
As if you are right at my side,
Sweetly calling my name,
But I can only respond in my dreams.

I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
Where the sand is, and where you are,
And so is my heart!
No matter the distance,
I just want to be with you,
Through the winds, through the storms
Holding your hands as we face
In each dusk and each dawn.

You said the depths of sea hold our life,
It’s the blue pace you’ve drawn for me.
Every gust of wind, every grain of sand,
Is your love for me, and my love for you.
Now, I’m tied with your sail,
Sailing with you, until
We embrace, and never apart.

The light’s a little dim,
The day’s a little dull,
And I’m a little low.
If you were here you’d tell me
To go slow,
Mind yourself,
Take it easy.
It’s hard for you now,
I’m sorry I can’t help more.
But I’m here, never far
And always minding you.
If you look hard you’ll see.
So, take your time, go slow.
Don’t be sad for me
Our memories are so happy
And it was time for me to go.
Written by N V Knox

‘Twas the day that the Sparrowhawk wur tae come tae stay,
And Storm Kathleen wis oan her way.

As the preparations fur Bella’s chicken pie wur aboot tae begin,
The hot wild wind moved in,
Sending everyone in this wee east coast toon intae a flap,
Whipping up waves and rocking boats in the harbour,
Stirring up all that stored up grief in that chamber deep in yer heart.

I watched the tears stream doon yer face,
And I asked ye if ye were sure ye were in the right place,
To make the pie and deal wi’ aw that it wid take.

It’s no straightforward meal, a chicken pie, I said.
But with determination, you replied,
I want to make it fur my gran, fur Bella,
Simply fur her memory’s sake.

And so my love, I said,
I thoroughly support ye, in yer endeavour.
Grief takes aw forms, aw shapes,
And ye have tae honour her in yer ain way.
Ye should make that pie and we shall raise a glass,
Tae Bella!

That very day, the visitor, we came to name her, a Sparrowhawk appeared oot o’ thin air,
Freaked oot wi’ the storm, she must hav lost her way,
And at the skylight at the tap o’ oor tenement, she decided she wid stay.

Looking doon on oor flat,
A visitor from the spirit realm I believe in some cultures they wid have deemed her,
Throughout the evening, you would go oot tae check,
That she wis okay, that nae harm had reached her.

She looked doon at you,
You looked up at her,
And eye to eye, a mutual understanding wis underway.

I hope that she will be okay, you whispered, as we kissed goodnight.
And indeed, as the next day dawned, we saw that she had made it,
Through the wild stormy night,

Unscathed.

The sea had begun to calm itself and the boats in the harbour were nae longer agitated.

Bella’s casserole dish wis wheeched oot o’ the cupboard,
And the makin’ of the pie began,
A few hoors later, Bella’s pie was baked, savoured,
And oor visitor found her way oot o’ the building, uninjured.

A Sparrowhawk,
Bella had sent to say,
Tanis, ma wee yin,
From this earth I may have departed,
But in yer heart is where we can meet again,
If ye wull only believe it.

This new way o’ connecting has only jist started.

Avery wanted to e-mail her mother
Her mother who died
I told her I understood
I said go ahead and e-mail her anyhow
I wanted to call my mother to wish her Merry Christmas
But she’s dead too

After Dianne died, I used to call her phone to listen to her voice on her answering machine
It felt weird, engaging in a covert act, but I did it
I called her phone more than once
More than twice
When her son changed the message, I was relieved
And lost

I called my sister on Christmas
I promised I’d e-mail her
And call her more often
I told her I loved her
I was thankful that she was still alive
Then

I am picturing your hands
Because I could
Or I would Find them anywhere.
Holding grab rails-
Your nail beds bitten down.
Because when I told you kick the habit
You bit harder. Like you were starving.
Like you were greater than what your body could hold.
Like you were.
Because you are.
Because your hands are the part of you
I got to move closer to me.
Because they, right now, are likely holding
A body.
That bears semblance, perhaps greater.
This body is newer, runs warm.
And if bodies are flames and flames go dull
Where does that put your hands?
I am at the bottom of every candle I own.
I am watching once big flames suffocate themselves,
Screaming for one last moment before they
Collapse into a single stream of smoke.
I am far less than what my body
Could hold.
Every night I let you sink your
Hands into my back until your grip unraveled me
And I felt so small this way. I felt so, so much.
I am picturing myself in your hands,
Inside.
Around.
In between.

The sixty-three-year-old dishwasher slowly shakes his head.
“This is it then?”
The twenty-one-year-old manager smiles.
“Yeah buddy. Are you a hugger, Gene?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
“Come here—“

It was Tommy’s last day. Gene had been working at the restaurant since his twenties and didn’t
see himself stopping anytime soon. Nowadays, his knees clicked when he walked, and his back
was missing a few disks. He was still the best damn dishwasher on the line and had been for
years. He was the one who trained a fifteen-year-old, bright-eyed Tommy after all.

“Thank you for teaching me everything I know.”
“Don’t mention it, kid.”

The two men shook hands and nodded their heads. Then they each got into their cars and headed
home, wherever that may be.