Ali this is achingly beautiful. I’ve written much about grief in raw ways, but you’ve captured it in a genre far outside what I could ever compose. I could feel every word. Thank you.
I love the use of breath in this poem of grief. We are always taught breathing techniques when walking through mental health, but it doesn't take away the pain. Just helps move through the feelings, even in the times when we can't move on. Love your work! <3
Oh, Ali, this is heartbreakingly beautiful. It reminds me of the day my Dad died. Mom, all six of us, my siblings and I, our spouses and kids were with him in that room. With our hands joined we’d prayed and recited Psalm 23. Dad had slipped into unconsciousness around noon on New Year’s Day 2010. Mom was standing on one side of the bed holding Dad’s hand and holding her rosary in the other. My oldest brother was kneeling on the floor on the other side of the bed, our brother-in-law’s stethoscope pressed to Dad’s heart. After praying, all was silent. Except for Dad’s breathing. Until the next breath never came and my brother looked up and said, “His heart just stopped.” I felt my Dad leave that room. We all did. And I thought, how peaceful his leaving was.
Beautifully written, Ali. I’m a fan of the poetry I’ve seen you write here on Substack. And I just saw you wrote “Momentary Afflictions.” I’ll be buying your book soon 🙌
I’m so sorry you walked through witnessing death of someone you love, dear Ali 💔❤️🩹 I pray for you as you navigate PTSD from the darkest moments of our earthly pilgrimage to our sorrowless, eternal home 🤍
I am sorry for your loss. Your words took me back to the moments my father took his last breath, not so long ago - I was back in the room with him again as I read. Thank you for entrusting us with such an intimate experience.
Ali this is achingly beautiful. I’ve written much about grief in raw ways, but you’ve captured it in a genre far outside what I could ever compose. I could feel every word. Thank you.
I love you, sister.
I love the use of breath in this poem of grief. We are always taught breathing techniques when walking through mental health, but it doesn't take away the pain. Just helps move through the feelings, even in the times when we can't move on. Love your work! <3
Thank you, Zoe! <3
Oh, Ali, this is heartbreakingly beautiful. It reminds me of the day my Dad died. Mom, all six of us, my siblings and I, our spouses and kids were with him in that room. With our hands joined we’d prayed and recited Psalm 23. Dad had slipped into unconsciousness around noon on New Year’s Day 2010. Mom was standing on one side of the bed holding Dad’s hand and holding her rosary in the other. My oldest brother was kneeling on the floor on the other side of the bed, our brother-in-law’s stethoscope pressed to Dad’s heart. After praying, all was silent. Except for Dad’s breathing. Until the next breath never came and my brother looked up and said, “His heart just stopped.” I felt my Dad leave that room. We all did. And I thought, how peaceful his leaving was.
I’m so sorry for your loss, friend. ❤️🩹
Beautifully written, Ali. I’m a fan of the poetry I’ve seen you write here on Substack. And I just saw you wrote “Momentary Afflictions.” I’ll be buying your book soon 🙌
Thank you so much, brother. This means a lot!
Wow. Thank you for this, Ali. Your writing is a blessing to everyone who reads it.
I love you lots, Rory. <3
I want to honor this piece with a comment and yet feel as though silence is the most fitting response. Thank you for sharing this❤️❤️
Thank you for reading, friend. ❤️
I’m so sorry you walked through witnessing death of someone you love, dear Ali 💔❤️🩹 I pray for you as you navigate PTSD from the darkest moments of our earthly pilgrimage to our sorrowless, eternal home 🤍
Thank you, dear friend. 🤍
I am sorry for your loss. Your words took me back to the moments my father took his last breath, not so long ago - I was back in the room with him again as I read. Thank you for entrusting us with such an intimate experience.