Hard work is the best antidote I know
when memories come unbidden,
when grief rears its fearsome hoary head,
when tears threaten to blur what beauty is still
within my field of vision, narrowed
by walls of memories, a virtual photo album
whose pages I turn without realizing I am doing it,
the pictures fading against my will. I want to see
the faces, the eyes, especially the eyes. The voices,
tracks of lost voices play again and again in my mind
as if someone pushed the repeat button on recordings buried,
unfiled and uncategorized, randomly but cunningly selected
to send the most lethal darts flying to my heart.
And so I work.
I clean and cook and paint until I fall
Exhausted at the end of day.
The voices quiet, the faces fade,
only to return in dreams of what once was.