Beautiful Bittersweet Life Poems

Exploring the world of life and grief through poetry.

Author: Jennifer Mullins

  • The Gift I Didn’t Ask For

    The Gift I Didn’t Ask For

    I sat slumped on the floor,
    the wrapping torn off the box.
    As I reached inside,
    I already knew that I didn’t want this present,
    but there was a no return policy stapled to the gift.

    Who was the giver that would lay
    such a heavy unwanted inheritance
    for me to carry with me
    as I wander the world for the rest of my days.

    The giver sits next to me,
    wrapping one arm around my shoulder
    as their other hand wipes away
    the tears that run down my cheeks.

    “Dear one,” they say,
    “I know that this present feels like a curse,
    and you’d rather that I’d disappear with it,
    leaving your world unshaken.”

    “But grief is interwoven with the love that preceded it
    like a finely knitted sweater.
    The tattered garment that you now possess
    is the love that remains.”

    I pulled the sweater to my heart,
    rubbing the holes that plague this once intact garment,
    knowing that my body will learn to adjust to the chill that the holes let in,
    while the rest of the sweater will warm me with your memories and love.

  • Meet Me Under The Blood Moon

    Meet Me Under The Blood Moon

    For Mike

    I wrestled the camera onto the tripod,
    preparing for the appearance of the blood red moon.
    I traipsed in and out of the house,
    making sure the camera base fit tightly to the stand,
    gathering extra batteries so I could capture the moment
    and adding layers of clothing
    to keep me warm from the bitter night air.
    Finally, everything was set,
    and I could enjoy the celestial drama.

    What I found as I tilted my head upwards in between shots
    was a wave of peace washing over me.
    On this day when you died thirteen years ago
    you felt so close in this otherworldly expanse of time and space.
    As the red shadow floated next to the dazzling moon
    it was like we were dancing in the sky.
    And though I can no longer feel your arms around me
    or hear you speak my name,
    at that moment, I knew that you were somewhere,
    just out of reach, watching over me from another horizon.

  • When Grief Visits at 4 AM

    When Grief Visits at 4 AM

    The visitation times are posted,
    daytime hours only.
    Do not disturb grievers after 10 pm,
    for they need time to rest and recover
    But grief doesn’t respect the artifice of time,
    arbitrary schedules society places on when we’re allowed to grieve.
    “Love,” it says, “I know you’d rather be sleeping,
    and this is an inconvenient time to visit,
    but sit with me for a while.”
    So, I lie in bed,
    wrapped in my blankets,
    pull out my notes app and write you a letter.
    Tears snake down my face,
    a welcome release from the pain in my chest.
    And just like that, grief releases its hold,
    bids me goodnight and disappears into the ether.

  • Letting Go, Finding Freedom

    Letting Go, Finding Freedom

    “Letting go is what keeps you alive.” Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, from “When Living on a Tiny Island.”

    I squeezed my hands so tight that my knuckles turned white,
    leaving red moon crescents imprinted on my palms.
    Hoping that I could stop time,
    and everything that lay ahead of me.
    How foolish to think that I had so much power.
    And yet, that was my habit,
    the insanity that I had always employed
    with no success.
    It took time to release my death grip,
    learning from the wisdom of others
    that the only influence that I possessed
    was over my own behaviors and thoughts.
    Frankly, my brain can still be
    the most dangerous neighborhood to visit.
    When I slowly let go of that which I couldn’t control,
    my body began to relax, and I could breathe again.
    I learned that love was holding people in my heart,
    no matter what our relationship was.
    Giving them the dignity to follow their own path
    freed me to follow mine.

  • Elephant Memory of Grief

    Elephant Memory of Grief

    Like elephants’ store memories
    that allow for their survival
    and to protect them from danger,
    we amass our grief experience.
    And though we would like to forget the pain
    when emotional anniversaries arise,
    our insides never forget.

    The brain says, “The anniversary of your beloved
    is close at hand.”
    And whether it was a year, or 13 years, or 25,
    your brain replays the time leading up to that
    horrible day in anticipation, as if it will happen
    again. No matter how rational your brain,
    death never makes sense.
    The absence is too profound.

    The heart says, “Your heart will always
    ache for your loved one.”
    You’ll wonder how you will walk through
    one more deathiversary, no matter
    how well you manage in life.
    For it’s the companionship, encouragement,
    the morning hug, and the support that your
    special person gave you will never be matched,
    for they were one of a kind.

    The body says, “Even if your brain and heart could forget,
    I will remind you as I course through your system,
    like defibrillator paddles”
    The tightness in the chest returns.
    The tears flow down your cheeks
    as you once again remember that this is your reality.
    Anxiety that something else bad will happen
    disrupts your days and nights
    A sluggishness returns as time stands still
    and barrels to the date of dread.

    The first year was the hardest
    because I truly thought that Mike would die again
    and I would have to relive the nightmare,
    not yet comprehending that death happens once.

    Now, my brain, heart, and body know
    that I can’t predict what day
    the anticipation will kick in,
    but it will come.
    I’ve also learned that the day itself will never be
    as bad as the days leading up to the death date,
    though the day after might be.
    However, my system will settle down to
    the low hum of grief that is
    forever a part of love.