Dipzinski

My grandmother died in October, 2020. I watched her body deteriorate. I write of her voice. Doctors took it away during a time I don’t remember and replaced it with an external device. She spent her remaining years practicing speech to release herself from the tether of this machine. Her resulting whisper resonated louder than most voices–confident, caring, full of love. My poems refer to her as “Small Mother” and tell stories of contradictions, of stability, of our family’s humanity.

My uncle died in August, 2024. I saw him lying in the hospital bed too young to not be moving. I write of his feet. His journey cut short because his own body turned on him. His time alive was spent traversing amongst his community and dealing in good vibes. The impact he left behind was a community of care, respect and admiration. My poems refer to his sun kissed skin and tell stories of joy, of memories, of unrelenting smiles.

My friend died in May, 2026. I watched her battle poison and cancer and liver failure. I write of her hair. A spiritual journey dyed a deep purple–the color of royalty, strength and legacy. She was a teacher and a linguist, masterfully weaving the importance of words and stories into the lives of everyone she met. Her promise is immortality. My poems refer to her promise and tell stories of support, of friendship, of chosen family.

Students of mine say that art is a way of expressing and processing emotions, that it is therapeutic and cathartic. I tend to believe them, yet, when I sit down to write of grief I shut down, and the blank page begins to overwhelm me. Everyone experiences grief, and I question what I have to add to an already prolific pantheon of art surrounding this topic. So, I write for myself and scratch out words that feel like memories I experience. I selfishly hoard a collection of pieces as if I am the only one deserving of their existence.

But, I was reminded at my friend’s celebration of life that we are responsible for the continuation of their story. They live in each of us, in our stories, in our poems.

Our ancestors knew this. They spread fables and epics depicting the ones that came before them. They told stories around the fire and proclaimed love and loss from the mountain top. We know Odysseus, Alexander the Great, Cleopatra, and David because of the tales told of them. They are alive and well on our pages and in our minds because we can write allusions of great voyages, pyramids and giants. Words elicit memory as if we experienced the tales first-hand. We experience the exhilaration, fear, happiness and grief of those in our history.

So, in honor of my friend’s promise to maintain immortality, I wish to present a Cento–a poem written by taking the lines of other poems and combining them into a new piece. This poem is a collection of lines hoarded and mostly unpublished and represents the stories and memories of my loved ones.

Grief: A Cento for Immortality

To the Girl with Purple Hair, i am happy to hear her voice– a beacon of joy surrounded by friends and family filled with bold love and immortality warmth wretched from the cold– to be her must be amazing chosen from the love found within lines of poems read aloud despite being unfinished.