Grief’s a funny thing. You’re going along just fine, and then suddenly you get…
Sucker Punched
Clear skies and sunshine
on the drive to work.
Like a bolt from the blue
the radio host jokingly refers
to “skivvies” and
my heart is skewered.
This is such a “you word”
I breathe deeply
try to regain my balance…
But I miss you, Dad.
©Molly Hogan
This poem feels a bit private, like something to keep in my notebook, but I’m trying to recommit to regularly participating in PF and also to sharing things that feel a bit more vulnerable. So, here it is.
This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Robyn Hood Black at her blog, Life on the Deckle Edge. She’s sharing a wonderful post about all things tea-related. Be sure to stop by!
Nix the comfort zone 
All poetry is vulnerable. It’s merely to what degree. I’m sorry you were sucker punched. A poem is the perfect place for the bruise to heal.
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“A poem is the perfect place for a bruise to heal”–oh, that’s lovely and a poem within itself!
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I’m sorry about the sucker punch. I’ll bet your dad would get a kick out of knowing that “skivvies” is a him-word. What a fun, funny word it is 🙂 Tabatha
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He probably would at that, Tabatha! 🙂
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Ooooof. I’ve been sucker punched like that. Some words that my Mom used just stop me and take me back to when I last heard them. Thanks for this poem. It is vulnerable and also something I really get.
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It’s funny the things that can just stop you in your tracks, even well after an initial loss.
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I applaud your vulnerability, Molly. And I hear you about missing your dad. I miss mine, too. January is his birthday month. “Skivvies” is a great dad-word. For my dad it was the phrase “I hear a barking spider” when he warned of an impending stink (if you know what I mean 😉 ) Sending you a hug. <3, Bridget
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That’s such a funny expression, Bridget! I’ve never heard it before! Thanks for the hug. My dad died two years ago, but sometimes the buffer of time feels thinner.
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Molly, grief is usually a private scenario but you shared an intimate moment – kudos for letting go of inside feelings. Your example strengthens my goal to be more vulnerable. Peace to you.
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Thanks, Carol. I find it tricky to gauge what’s vulnerable and what’s wallowing. Peace to you as well!
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Thanks for being vulnerable. As others said, this kind of moment is familiar. There is a balm in sharing. And smiles with tears in remembering.
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It’s definitely a mix of sorrow and smiles.
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It seems somehow wrong to comment on craft when your poem is so vulnerable, but I’m swooning over your word choice (“skewered”) and the ways you make this memory poetic with rhyme and alliteration.
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Sometimes it’s hard to gauge when the meaning is so personal, so thanks for the craft comments!
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I think revealing something that makes the poet feel vulnerable makes the poem worth writing. You’ve given the reader something to feel.
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Thanks so much. I’m glad this poem has resonated for others.
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Molly, this is charming and painful at the same time. I love that the word skivvies reminds you of your dad’s vernacular, and I am at the same time so sorry for your grief. It is the intensity of the joy that makes the grief so painful.
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Didn’t someone say that grief is love with no place to go? I like that perspective.
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Molly, thank you for sharing your vulnerability here. Even though the title was there, the bright sunshine and clear skies made me forget what was coming. Therefore, the reader gets a small bit of your sucker punch when your “heart is skewered.” So painful and raw. Thank you for sharing, and yes to healing through writing and sharing poetry.
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Thanks, Denise. I actually debated about changing the title because it might be too much “there”. I still wonder about that, but appreciate your perspective.
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Thank you for sharing this! Very personal and very relatable. A skewered heart! I’m so sorry for your loss.
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Thanks, Marcie. It’s been over two years now, but some moments can unexpectedly make that time feel thin.
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Thanks for sharing your vulnerable poem which is so universal to me. If I see 11:11, I say, “Hi, Dad.” He’s always with me, but especially so when his birthdate shows on any clock.
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I love that, Margaret! I always make wishes when I see 11:11 on a clock. Now I’ll think of you and your dad, too!
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It seems to happen at maybe what we might say are the oddest things, things we would not list exactly, but they come. I’m sorry that it happened for you, but am grateful you shared, Molly. It is sad to have it happen but you made me smile at that word I think of as old, ‘skivvies’ from my own older family members.
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Thanks, Linda. Skivvies is definitely a fun word and one that makes me smile, both in and of itself and because of hearing my dad say it.
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It also was a push for me posting something a personal related to grieving my father this week, so thank you for making me not alone in that.
Your poem is beautifully crafted and captures something familiar and poignant. I like how you the sucker punch is book-ended with “Clear skies and sunshine” and “try to regain my balance…” And I love that the line that follows is its own one-line stanza.
I find that these kinds of moments both make me really sad and then are followed by some happiness to know that there will continue to be things in the world that remind me of my father.
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Thanks, Karin. It’s funny how those moments slip in out of the blue sometimes and from the oddest places. You’re right there’s also a warmth to them– in the remembering, I guess. I wish you many happy memories.
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I am humbled by your vulnerability, Molly. And I’ve been there – the sucker punch. Thank you for sharing this.
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Thanks, Patricia. Sometimes those moments spark a forgotten memory, and that’s a gift.
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It’s a gift to all of us who have grieved and felt that sucker punch that you share these private moments.
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Thanks, Buffy. Grief is such a unique and yet universal experience. It’s hard to find the boundaries sometimes.
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Hugs, Molly–I’m trying to share vulnerable stuff, too. I applaud you! I think that, like Buffy said, it’s a privilege to us readers. And I also think it’s how we move from lovely but somewhat academic feeling poems to ones that really touch readers…
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Thanks, Laura. I suppose, like so much else, it’s a balancing act of sorts.
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You honored everyday grief. It’s those small moments when we miss them most. Your dad is in his skivvies smiling down at you!
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It was such an odd word to hear on the radio that morning! I can hear his voice saying it though and that makes me smile.
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So personal and so universal, Molly. Thanks for being willing to share. (My dad died in January, 29 years ago. The phrase that got me one time a few years ago was overhearing someone say, “rode hard and put up wet.”) Wishing you comfort as time ambles on.
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Thanks, Robyn. I definitely have found comfort as time has passed. It still surprises me, though, how odd moments seem to cut right through that sometimes. This was one of those. Thanks for sharing your dad’s saying.
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Grieving takes the time it takes. We each are on our journey. They’ll come a time where there’s more joy than sadness. Must have been a helluva guy/dad!
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Thanks, Dan. Grief is definitely a journey.
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