I never fully understood the meaning of the  word “mourn” until this year -
To truly feel the loss of another concentrated in its purest form.

I never believed when others would say
“I miss you more, in  each and every day” or
“There’s not an hour goes by, without a thought of you on my mind”
As if Loss is an unforgotten constant in the trails of the trivial,
We are only human after all.

But I was naive, through and through.
Loss never leaves your side once you meet
Loss is a friend for life.
The kind that shows their face in the most unpredictable moments,
Who never fades away or falls out,
Becoming more aquatinted as we go through life.

Loss is selfish, wanting our undivided attention,
Expecting us to indulge in its deep dark thoughts with strong pretension.

Loss is harsh, not hiding nor sugarcoating any enemy attack,
Facing us with the reality of control and just how much we lack.

Loss is bitter, Loss is unkind
Loss is a thief, stealing our piece of mind.

Loss is jealous, Loss is sly.
Is it absent of Love,
Or has Love left it’s side?

My father's name means
'one who doesn't mourn'.

But  I  have seen him
Grieving for  his
Grim childhood, broken
Home, fading away of
His own father after
Prolonged sickness, his
widowed mother of
Twenty years and his
Four year old self.

Maybe sometimes your
Name isn't something
You are, but something
You should be.

-Sayali Parkar

I'm starting to not remember how you looked.
But I remember little things,
like how you'd fold half the page to dogear
your place in a book.
The smell of old canvas
which you stretched when you were manic,
and watched it turn whiter
as you grew depressed thinking of how to paint it.

The grinding of your teeth in your sleep, ******* it
it drove me up the wall. Still does, because
as I sit here writing it from memory I shuddered.

The smell of your shampoo whose brand name I forgot.
Because if I could I'd have a case of it.
Just to be nearer to you.

You used to smile when I'd read you something I wrote.
Now I've found a website where I can post.
You always told me I had some type of talent to capture
moments nobody noticed,
a photographer with words instead of apertures.
But aren't they meant to be worth a thousand more than mine?
I think you held for me a little bias.

You told me I'd end up as a paragraph in an essay
of some American Literature student's midterm grade.
She'd ace it, and I loved where you placed me.
In the middle of everything better than I was,
in this future of whimsy where I kept writing
just because.

I can't tell you what you gave me for those years, as short as they were.
All I can do is tell other people that any confidence or talent is all due to her.

You don't know the depth of your hatred for someone
Until you dream of watching their demise
It is hatred if you enjoy it
It is a lie you tell yourself if you mourn it

In the fields of fragrant flowers,
I see Mother’s supple silhouette
shimmering with the soft sunlight.
Her hair tied with peony barrette;
Sweet smiles radiate at sight.
The sentimental scents of myrrh
Wafts from her body; my eyes gleam;
I run towards and embrace her.
Is this a dream? Is this a dream?

In the fields of fragrant flowers,
This time and space is of great blest-
I wish there was no tomorrow.
For months I have been left bereft.
I tell mother of my sorrow;
I wish to be with her and roam
Away from life’s chaos and gloom.
Return to the land of our home,
And see orchid blossoms bloom.
I ask mother if I could stay;
Thousand tears cloud her gentle eyes;
She kisses me like rainy day;
It is time to awake and part!

My heart weeps with the wintry wind.
Her spirit; many miles apart.
I am alone and left behind
To face this world’s reality.
Must this be my sad destiny?

All that is left
Is scents of fragrant flowers.

(c) 2018 Joanne Chang

A little girl sang a song on the streets
About men, tired fighting the war
About the ships that left
And all who forgot their joy to the end.

She sang in her clean voice and flew up to highness
And sunbeams shined on her shoulder
Everyone saw and heard from the darkness
The ***** and torn clothes singing in the light.

All of them were sure that joy would come
Because ships arrived at beach
The people in the land of war
Regained their bearings are happy.

Sweet was her voice and the sun’s beam around
And by heaven’s gate
The little girl versed into mysteries and mourned
Because none of them will ever be returned.