Writing Pantoums in Grief

Once a month, parents and siblings log onto Zoom for LITT-Write — not to fix their grief, rush healing, or “move on,” but to be together.

There is no pressure to grow. No expectation to feel better by the end of the hour. Instead, they gather as they are — carrying love, loss, anger, confusion, memory — and they write. Writing becomes the practice that holds them. It gives shape to what feels shapeless. It allows them to sit in the rubble without being alone.

For some, the work is simply to sift through the debris and pick up the glowing embers — the small, enduring memories that still warm the heart. For others, it is an invitation to think about craft, to experiment with form, or to spend a quiet Sunday afternoon in the company of people who understand the complicated language of grief without explanation.

At their most recent gathering, they explored the pantoum — a fifteenth-century poetic form that originated in Malaysia. With its repeating lines and circular structure, the pantoum mirrors the rhythm of grief itself: how certain thoughts return, how memories echo, how meaning slowly shifts with each repetition. What emerged from that hour were pieces of writing that held sorrow and beauty side by side — works that remind us that even in the trenches, art can rise.

Below, we’re honored to share a selection of those pieces.

The calendar sits unfilled on the kitchen counter

I want no more pages turned

My ears ring trying to find you in the missed places

Nana's tulips breaking through

The Dollar Store wind chimes jingling in the breeze

The fridge knocks like it needs your hug.

The house tucked between the baseball field and the BART

The calendar still sits, waiting for me to start the year

On one side, newly mown grass waiting for the first batter

The train horn warning of its approach on the other

Wind chimes signaling to look out the window

Nana's tulips are breaking through like they have every spring since you were 5

I want no spring signals, no more calendar pages turned

My ears ring, the constant hum accompanying the knock of the fridge

Both of us waiting for your hug

Both of us missing you in all the blank places

The warning horn came too late

How is it that the tulips are going to open without you?Your backyard of childhood memories still here

My ears are still ringing, trying so loudly, trying to bring you back

-Ella's mom

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I'm pulled out the window into the screaming sun; is it June again?

Of course it's June; it's always June, the heat replies.

I'm pulled out the window into the screaming sun; is it June again?

My dog barks, help! She's so confused.

Of course it's June; it's always June, the heat replies.

Sirens sing; they're on their way.

My dog barks, help! She's so confused.

The palm leaves shimmer under the blue canopy to decorate the day.

My dog barks, help! She's so confused.

The chainsaw growls and beckons me outside; shut up, already

The palm leaves shimmer under the blue canopy to decorate the day.

A bouncing beat laughs from a neighbor's yard

-Karen Streeter, Evan’s mom

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The waterfall splashes on the pool that needs to be skimmed

Leaves rustle

Our dog shifts, unsure where she should rest

Someone passing by is numbing their pain—there's that skunky smell of pot

Leaves tremble

Light dances on the water making diamonds

Someone passes by numbing their pain

A heavy plane moans as it gains altitude

The lake shimmers in the afternoon light

My husband and his friend, Charlie, talk over the noise of the Olympics

A heavy plane moans as it gains altitude

This yard is empty on a Sunday afternoon; here is where you belong

Your Dad's watching sports

Marley paces inside, then out,

The emptiness of where you should be

The waterfall

-Katie Rizzo, Nicholas's mom

---

My small town teenage bedroom now has blank walls.

Cars driving by at night sound like my sister saying shhhhh, go to sleep.

Raccoons are up all night. I'm trying not to be again.

A thud tells me the big cat jumped off the couch.

Cars driving by at night sound like my sister saying shhhhh, go to sleep.

There is a strip of light from the streetlight.

A thud tells me the big cat jumped off the couch.

I have to keep living every moment without her.

There is a strip of light from the streetlight.

My foot kicked out from the covers soaks in the chill.

I have to keep living every moment without her.

Her body was cold last I saw her.

My foot kicked out from the covers soaks in the chill.

Raccoons are up all night -- I'm trying not to be again.

Her body was cold last I saw her.

My small town teenage bedroom now has blank walls. 

-Sarah Beth, Helen’s Mom

---

Rest Is Its Own Work

I wish I could catch time, turn it backwards.

The heater in my old, leaky house pumps hard, hijacks my heartbeat.

My hands, chapped by winter’s work,feel the warmth of the mug long after I set it down.

The heater in my old, leaky house pumps harder, hijacking my heartbeat.

Night approaches; I am hungry and tired from travel,still feel the warmth of the mug long after I set it down.

A candle burns with cardamom, patchouli, while yesterday’s kimchi clings in my kitchen.

Night approaches; I am hungry and tired.

The ache behind my eyes reminds me that rest is its own work.

A candle burns with cardamom, patchouli, while yesterday’s kimchi clings in my kitchen.

What I miss is irrecoverable.

The ache behind my eyes insists that rest is its own work.

My hands, chapped by winter’s work,

feel the warmth of the mug long after I set it down.

What I miss is irrecoverable.

I wish I could catch time, turn it backwards.

-Kristin Seeberger, James’s mom