She used to love the springtime.
Days lengthened,
the warmed earth gave life.
The sun seems less warm
this year.
An undercurrent of pain
flows through the hours.
Surface pleasures
serve only as distractions
from the hollowness within.
Each joy shared other years
strikes sharp, and hard
as the season wakens
dormant thoughts
of all the other springtimes.
She almost wants
not to notice the flowers –
each awareness
brings its own memory,
its own pain.
And she wonders
if she can love Spring again.
— Christine Rigden
(for Aunt Priscilla)