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Those Who Thirst
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Those who thirst
are alway the first
To come to the fountain of love.

For whatever reason,
They had no full season
Of what they deserved from Above.

A mother who held them
But only de-spelled them
from wanting more than they deserved

A mother who feared
Because her life was weird
and the freedom she sought, like the birds,

Was something she wouldn’t
or maybe she couldn’t
oh dear, now i can’t find the words.

This poem is lame,
But if it’s all the same
To you partner, forgive

For it’s all I can do
since Im so very blue,
To sit and to write and to live.

Okay… in my deep depression, this is l could come up with today.
i feel like i eternally thirst ….
for the reassurance that i am okay despite the fact that we all die.
It doesn’t seem fair does it?
That we are given this life and then it is so quickly taken way.

I am depressed, no doubt about it.
But i am going to have lunch with friends today, so i hope that will help.

Sorry for the doggerel poetry…
It’s all i could come up with.


Ok, I’ve had a good therapy session, and decided to cancel my lunch date and sit and write all day…it will do me more good than crying and keening in public at our favorite outdoor café. People would definitely stare.

I thirst.
And it is really quite simple what i thirst for: another hug from the friend i just lost.
Another glimpse at his silly and handsome face.
Another lecture from his easy chair on the benefits of the Buddhist path,
not a hell of a lot which seemed to do him good near his end. And that angers me.

Death can be so undignified .
ANd Paul was a man of superb and gentle dignity.
I thirst for his gentleness and his calm caring.
He wasn’t always calm….as he aged, and complications in his relationship with his partner thickened, he became frightened of being alone. And he would come down the back stairs of the house we share on Page Street and sit in my home office and share his anxieties. This was hard for me, as i was the one that usually counted on him in our fifty years of love and friendship to calm my fears.

I thirst for his presence. And i cry as i type this, hoping maybe to quench my thirst with the water of my tears. The trouble is: tears are salty, and salt provokes more thirst….thirst for wailing, thirst for keening, thirst for watering the realm of possibility for his return to my life, which will never happen.

Turns out I’m also extremely angry at him for dying.
And at god…or God….or whatever…for calling him Home… I even believe in such a home? Doubtful .

But, then again, we are all energy, and who knows what’s up with that.

I thirst for my energy to dance in the heavens with Paul’s energy, in a tango no less complicated than the life we moved through together. Oh well, truly, perhaps, with maybe a few less complications.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

I know for a fact she can thirst.


Good work, Evalyn. Inspiring to see your engagement with the “sticky demons” as you embody and honor your grief.

P.S. Odd that we both had similar titles to our pieces this week, coincidentally!


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