Renée K. Nicholson

 

Upon Watching North By Northwest I Am No Longer Young

                                                               for Derek McCracken

Cary Grant just dove

into a stand of corn stalks,

dust clinging to his sharp

gray suit, when I get a message

from a friend that lost

two siblings last year. One expected,

one not. This summer, my only brother

will be dead five years.

So much and so little

time. The Hitchcock Blonde

is never who she seems, perfect

cat-eye lid and pale lips. We move

between two worlds, celluloid flicker,

and the atmosphere here below, where

the cereal-and-steak lives march on.

I don’t know what to tell my friend.

Growing old feels thin. My brother and I

told jokes about becoming shuffleboard champs

at the old age community. Instead, I watch

Tippi Hedren run with Cary Grant across

Washington’s nose, or is it Eva Marie Saint

across Lincoln’s? All dead, along with my friend’s

siblings and my only brother, and yet some hope

glows brighter than my big screen TV, like an ember

lost from the underworld, or overworld, whatever

world exists beyond. I compose my response, vowels

all wrong, I’m sorry long and bland. Instead, I wish

to extend my hand to his, clutching our feeble dreams.

On screen, Cary Grant’s gestures say

what words never could.

 

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about what to do with grief