Chelsea Rose Murphy, Chelsea Murphy

By Betsy Whitmarsh – Thinking of Chelsea Murphy

Thinking of Chelsea Murphy by Betsy Whitmarsh…

Stop all the clocks
By W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message [S]he Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
[S]he was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Today, for the first time, I can feel that insatiable tug of life, pulling us forward, into the future, and away from you.

I want to stop the clocks and just rest here with you for awhile.

I know that we are, all of us, transformed, by you. By the gift of your presence in our lives.

And now, we must find a way to carry your heart in our hearts, if we are to survive with our futures intact and whole.

But it’s so hard, honey. Because I’m more than a little bitter. And angry. And drowning in these tears. I want to ring the bell and break the damned thing all at the same time.

I know. Chicken, egg. Caterpillar, butterfly. Got it, Babe. Chin up. Keep smiling. I will. Just like you. For you.
Miss you. Love you. Wish you were here.

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