Poem: Only Needles

I have mentioned my weekly writing group several times and how helpful I find their feedback, specifically on my short stories. Another way in which the members of that group have inspired me is through their vulnerability and their willingness to share their pain through their writing.

I tend to write weird little stories about strange little worlds. My writing does sometimes leave me in tears, but they are secret tears shed for secret reasons and I have no reason to think that my readers feel what I feel when reading my work.

So, here is the first draft of a poem I wrote about loss and grief. It is unedited and raw, and I hope you will read it with kindness.

Only Needles

I left your knitting needles behind.

In a box?

In a bag?

In the chest of drawers that was also yours?

My heart aches and my mind searches for the memory.

I left your knitting needles behind.

I brought your doll.

I brought your quilt.

I brought your rabbit.

But every needle I left behind stabs me in the heart.

I left your knitting needles behind.

I left the patterns that you so lovingly curated.

I left your books.

I left your furniture.

I left part of me.

I left your knitting needles behind.

"You couldn't bring it all," they tell me.

"You crossed an ocean. You crossed a continent," they say.

"They're only needles. You can buy more."

I left your knitting needles behind.

I have your stories--I will learn from them.

I have your memories--I will cherish them.

But your knitting needles are gone,

Lost forever.

As are you.