My mother, Geraldine “Gerry” Garren, 84, passed away two years ago on this day. I wrote this for her, but it was also inspired by others I know who are suffering. This month has been a cruel one for many.
I hope this will give someone hope, because I truly believe that if you love someone and they love you, death does not take that love. I don’t think it can.
This poem is my theory of what happens to that love…and why it makes your heart ache.
What Happens to the Love? By Michelle Garren-Flye
Losing you left all the edges: your love moved into my heart… god it hurts when it stretches.
Indelible, your love stresses; oh, can I bear this part? Losing you left me with edges.
Death can’t claim successes, so love moves in with art, causes aches as it stretches.
Accept the way it presses and tears your chest apart; losing someone leaves edges.
Patience, time progresses and lightens what once was hard. Just breathe as the heart stretches.
Grief is the way love compresses your love and mine as one in my heart. Yes, it hurts when it stretches, and sometimes I still feel the edges.
Photo and poem copyright 2025 Michelle Garren-Flye
Today I’m remembering my mother. She died one year ago. Throughout this year, I have had moments when I wanted to talk to her more than anything else in the world. And knew I couldn’t.
Maybe that’s where this poem came from.
At any rate, I’m sure it’s not just me. (Although some of you may not write ghazals about it. Or attempt to. I’m still struggling with this form!)
Hug someone you love today.
Oh. By Michelle Garren-Flye
I wait for the rhyme to come but, oh, pain? The rhythm runs through my thumbs, oh pain!
Sometimes it all feels right—no strain— and others it’s nothing but, oh, pain.
Some might seek comfort in cocaine but that will not shelter me from…oh. Pain.
Your beauty I have come to know, fain would I reject its attraction, oh Pain.
My last refrain is your domain; rest, you’ll fly in my love, oh pain.
Photo and text copyright 2024 Michelle Garren-Flye
This is my mother. It was taken not long ago by my brother. He often took her and my father out to lunch since he lived nearby. My mother had Alzheimer’s. She was diagnosed in February 2020. She passed away on February 21 this year. I like this picture because her smile is bright and though the disease she fought had taken so much of her by this point, you can still see her intelligence and humor. And there’s a bit of innocence there, too. Like maybe she was already becoming an angel.
I saw her a month ago. She was still awake and still knew me, though communication was difficult by that point. But I could see she knew who I was, and I am grateful for that. I got to hold her hand and even felt her squeeze it a little. I know this is not always the case. I miss her. I’ve missed her for a long time, but now, knowing she won’t wake up and talk to me again one day, it’s different.
My mother taught me to laugh whenever I could, to curse when I had to, to enjoy music and reading, how to clean toilets (although I don’t use that much), that you always vacuum before you dust (again, not something I use much), to clean as you cook, that the beach is a bit of heaven on earth, that fried potatoes and country-style steak are the best food you’ll ever have on this earthly plane, to apologize when you’re wrong, and that loving and protecting your children takes precedence over everything else and doesn’t end just because they’re adults.
Among many other things.
I remember hearing that you’re not truly dead until no one is left to remember you. That’s part of why I’m putting this out there. Tomorrow is her funeral, and I will say goodbye to my mother. But I don’t believe she will truly be gone. Because I will always remember her. And maybe now some of you will, too.
Goodbye
By Michelle Garren-Flye
Let’s say goodbye as many times as you like:
once when I’m lying in bed unable to face the day,
This isn’t exactly a new poem. It was inspired by my oldest son but over the course of the past year I’ve seen more and more instances of strength in all three of my kids. They’ve been generous with that strength, too, loaning it to me when I needed it. Like a warm coat they take off their own shoulders to place over mine.
So thank you, kiddoes. Without you I wouldn’t be me.
Poem and illustration copyright 2022 Michelle Garren-Flye
Perhaps brought on by my “Bad Mommy” experience of last weekend, I’ve been thinking a lot about motherhood and what exactly it is.
I realized that if we’re lucky, we have a lot of mother figures in our lives. Just giving birth to kids doesn’t make you a mother. A mother is more than that. My own kids have me, two grandmothers, the wonderful lady who’s helped me with babysitting, laundry, housekeeping for eleven years, and several teachers, relatives and friends who’ve at one point or another provided guidance or help. A veritable village of mothers out there—I’m just the one who’s lucky enough to live with them on a day-to-day basis.
So I wrote a little poem for all the mothers out there, whether you gave birth or even live with your children. If you’ve ever supported a child in a time of need, this is for you.
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 