This poem arose from a conjunction of events—the recent death of my mother-in-law, the last surviving parent on either side of our family, and my driving for hours through a deep Canadian winter to offer a grief workshop in Brockville. The periodic bursts of long “O” sounds echoed for me the howling wind, and the endlessly receding landscape evoked the landscape of memory and our yearning for return. The sensory pull between the strong draw of the past and my forward momentum found expression in the evolving imagery, and hinted at an essential tension in grieving.
–Robert A. Neimeyer
The Art of Longing
Those of us who have driven
the long cold road alone
have watched the thin line
of trees, frosted white,
slipping behind
like memories.
We know the pull
of something unseen
beyond the reach of dry eyes,
fixed, blinking
at the distant mist.
We ride the road
with our lonely ghosts,
unwavering in their devotion
like penitents at the altar
of our grief.
This is how we perfect
the art of longing,
learn to nurse the hurt,
refuse the fullness
of this world.
For now, we keep driving,
lean into the dimming light,
lean further toward
winter’s receding horizon,
and away from arrival.
Reprinted with permission from Robert A. Neimeyer, The Art of Longing : Selected Poems. Charleston, SC: BookSurge/CreateSpace. Photo by L.R. Lynn
