The World Spins

A poem about how it feels when someone close to you dies, about how the world stops, and how it keeps going

I love this photo of my mom. She may be the only other person I’ve ever known who loved to swim as much as I do, who felt so at home in the water. It’s hard to pick a single photo that represents what I most want to remember about her. But this is easily in the top five.

I wrote the bones of this poem in the first few days after my mom died. Then I put it away, got caught up in all the minutia of death, of planning a funeral. When I came back to it this week, I was so struck by how viscerally it recalled to me the way it felt when she died, the sense of being outside the world, a spectator.

How utterly strange it is to emerge from the room where somebody has died to find everyone else just going about their day. It’s a bizarre, other worldly feeling and it doesn’t go away for a long time. I constantly felt in those first days and weeks like I was trying to catch up with the world, like I’d stepped off and I couldn’t get moving fast enough to jump back on.

Memories from that day would creep up on me, some from her last moments which were really hard. But others were just moments: sitting with my feet up on her bed reading her crossword clues; the staff coming and going as they adjusted her position, bathed her face, administered morphine, all the while using her name and calling her honey, or love, or girlfriend. She never regained consciousness, but we all talked to her as though she was still there. They say hearing is the last sense to fade.

The people who cared for her were remarkable. The staff at the facility where she lived and the hospice workers who came to know her so well - they were all the very personification of mercy, of generosity, of respect, and of love. To witness what they do, close up, was a privilege. And it was a privilege to be there with my mom when she died.

I’ve started so many poems about my mom’s death in the last few weeks. They are all mere fractions of the whole experience, which is so broad and so minute, all at once. They all sprang from different emotions, different points along the timeline. They are jagged and unfinished, and each represents something singular and true, but fleeting. Together, when they are complete, I imagine they will be a kind of kaleidoscope. This is the first one I’ve gotten to a point where I feel like sharing it.   

This is all hard, sad stuff and I’m sorry if it’s tough for you to read. I understand if it’s not the right time for you to meet this poem. But I wanted to share it because maybe you’ll recognize what I’m describing and you’ll feel seen, understood. Or maybe it will give you a bit of knowledge to tuck away, a pin dropped in a map to help you find your way.

---

This is a first for me. I’m including an audio recording of me reading today’s poem. I was so wowed, so inspired by the video posted yesterday by

15thCenturyFeminist

, by her bravery, and warmth. It made me think maybe it’s time to add audio to some of my posts. Let me know what you think.

---

The World Spins

It’s hard 
to engage 
in the usual stuff
I just keep thinking 

But my mom died

At the grocery store 
the pharmacy 
on the endless social scroll 
where everyone 
has something 
to say 
about politics 
about climate change 
about tragedy 
and crime 
and I know that 
perhaps 
it will one day 
seem 
like some of that 
matters again 

All I can think 
to reply with is 

But my mom died 

And the world spins
 
It spun as she took 
her last breaths 
not even a stutter step 
slowed its turning 
but she was here 
and then she was gone 
and nobody outside 
those four walls knew it 

At her last 
shuddering gasp 
there was a truck 
passing 
outside her window
The engine 
continued to run 
the wheels turned 
the driver braked and steered 
like it was just 
another moment 
in just another day 

But that was the moment 
she was gone

And for another hour
until they came
to take her away
the minutes 
in that room
were frozen
the seconds
did not tick by
but settled
like dust
along the creases
in the sheet
they'd tucked
with tender hands
beneath her chin

So I cannot
remember
why this all mattered
and what it all means
and I cannot tell you
what I think
about this place
and its troubles

because I am not here
and she is gone
and the world spins

---

There are, I’m sure, many thoughtful essays on grief to be found here on Substack. I’d love to know what has stood out for you, what has felt true and helpful. Soon after my mom’s funeral,

Lizzy Co

posted a Note about writing her dad’s obituary. The comments were such a generous outpouring of support and warmth, it kind of took my breath away. I was so close in my own life to the moment she described, that I read those words like they were directed to me.

I also returned to a couple of posts from

Amber Tamblyn

, one about the death of her mentor, Jack Hirschman, and another about how Jack’s death helped her see a way to be present in her relationship with her father and live in a way that celebrates their bond and honors the grief she knows she will some day experience. These are moving, thoughtful pieces and I highly recommend them if you are facing or coping with a loss. The community at

Listening in the Dark with Amber Tamblyn

was so full of kindness when my mom died. It’s a lovely place to spend time on Substack.

Go to your broken heart. If you think you don't have one, get one.

Good Grief

Thank you all for being here.