"Table for Two": a visual poem about grief & finding pockets of joy
the ceiling fan whispers in my mama’s room
After speaking at the 2025 NAMI CA Conference on day one, I dedicated day two to my own healing and creative exploration. I participated in poet and death doula David Morin's powerful, challenging, heart expanding "Pockets of Joy" grief workshop.
After a fantastic ice breaker (greet a stranger in this room like your best friend whom you haven't seen in 10 years - things got very real, very quickly), we breathed together, listened to David perform his poetry, then got to work free-writing our own meditations on grief, loss and recognizing "pockets of joy" that sustain and invigorate us.
My piece, titled "Table for Two", flowed out of me. At no point did my pen stop moving; my raw feelings and impressions covered three pages: my mama's dementia, hospice care, hallucinations, my child's mental illness and recovery, the toll the pandemic has taken on my nuclear family, longing for family dinners but adjusting to meals at our "table for two". Only when David gently interceded, giving us 15 seconds to finish, did my poem hint at my current state of slow hope: "submerged in grief, but still here."
I made a visual poem out of the piece, using footage I shot in my mama’s room and on road trips to visit her. I appreciated how writing the poem during the workshop was bounded by time. I embraced the "first take, best take" idea during free writing. I did no editing of the poem when recording the audio version, and I knew that recording an audio version of it would bring fresh power to my words. Messy is acceptable, even preferable, as I wade through my grief.
I believe that art heals. This process - from writing to recording to editing the visual poem - released me from some of my pain and grief. I'm sharing the visual poem here, with the full text of the poem below, as well.
quiet desperation and fear
mama fading
ancestors gathering - whispers, shouts, meeting her too soon
head rubs and connection
my Dahlia wilting, falling, blooming
facing toward the sun, rising to meet the moment
gone are the cuddles, the easy laughter,
replaced by what?
a gulf of understanding widens between us
chuckling at or is it with me?
and I feel a tug connecting our two beating hearts
fading, fading
past love, past counsel, past guidance, past joy
where can I find pockets of joy that keep this moment afloat?
ambiguous, extended grief
people inquire after her: how is she?
It is what it is, and it is not good.
I don't want to accept it, but I'm worn down, resigned
grasping at moments that remind me of who she once was - still is - will always be to me.
family dinners for two
missing my babies, their banter and laughter fading into the bright red walls of our house.
The colors are cheerful, defying, challenging me to stay stuck, heavy with my grief and pain.
my weighted blanket, a book, soft music, string lights on the porch
they all offer me comfort, trying to fill the space heavy with sadness.
I succumb to the comfort. It brings me some solace, yet I am still heavy with grief
breathing, closing my eyes, baking, singing, making art, laughing,
sitting at our table for two, rebuilding a love based on love
submerged in grief, but still here
Tricia Speaks! offers a variety of keynote talks and workshops on mothering, creativity, mental health and women's empowerment. Connect with Tricia Speaks!
