The morning air is all awash with angels . . .
Richard Wilbur
The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.
I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?
Who is most among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because
He's astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma,
I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps,
And then I remember that my father
Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom,"
I say. "I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—
How did I forget?" "It’s okay," she says.
"I made him a cup of instant coffee
This morning and left it on the table—
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—
And I didn't realize my mistake
Until this afternoon." My mother laughs
At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days
And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.
Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.
Those angels, forever falling, snare us
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.
Poem reprinted with permission from hangingloosepress.com
the poetry publisher for Sherman Alexie
Dearest Nickolas,
I am thinking of you this morning, well, really this afternoon. Whenever I am here alone, I think of the mornings it would be just you and me here in the house; a treasured day, when we didn’t have to go down to the hospital. A day we could just stay home and enjoy the time together away from the pain and the sorrow of the clinic.
I remember we would both sleep in and sometimes I would even get up before you because you were lying in your bed reading or thinking or just taking your time to think about getting up.
I remember when I would try to cook you breakfast, sausage or toast or something, usually with hot tea.
I remember when we would watch Price Is Right on the tv and we would try to guess the prices and see who was right.
I remember feeling so good to have you near and have you home, snuggle up on the couch.
I remember how you would like to watch the birds out of the window and we would listen to their voices singing and the blue jays squawking.
I can picture you wearing your blue furry shirt and your knit cap.
I wish I could remember more…it doesn’t seem like much. It makes me so sad. I miss you so much.
It was always so good to have you at home where you belonged. I remember how you always looked forward to eating whatever your Dad would fix for you.
How sad that “eating” has to become a treasured past time that we learn we have taken for granted, as you wasted away to skin and bone, while your lungs were dying even as we all chewed and swallowed the lumps in our throats and the pain in our hearts.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
Going down Hill on a Bicycle, A Boy's Song
By Henry Charles Beeching
WITH lifted feet, hands still,
I am poised, and down the hill
Dart, with heedful mind;
The air goes by in a wind.
Swifter and yet more swift,
Till the heart with a mighty lift
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:--
'O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.
'Is this, is this your joy?
O bird, then I, though a boy
For a golden moment share
Your feathery life in air!'
Say, heart, is there aught like this
In a world that is full of bliss?
'Tis more than skating, bound
Steel-shod to the level ground.
Speed slackens now, I float
Awhile in my airy boat;
Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,
My feet to the treadles fall.
Alas, that the longest hill
Must end in a vale; but still,
Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er,
Shall find wings waiting there.
A Poem, a Bicycle, a Bird
by Naomi Shihab Nye
A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,
the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.
What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.
A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.
Tomorrow will be our second Thanksgiving without Nickolas.Two days before "Thanksgiving"
With disgust in my heart--
For man-made festivities,
I don't want any part...
Who says we're to celebrate
On that specific day
When holidays infiltrate
thanks-givings ev'ry day!
How ~ for crying out loud,
Do I party in a crowd:
"Turkey's ready ~ Ham's a fryin' --
Will you ask her to stop cryin'?!"
"Good ~ everybody's here ~
Are you sad again this year?"
"Okay ~ it's time to draw names --
Your child's missing? We can't be blamed!"
"You don't have any time t' grieve today --
We've got to shop and buy all day!"
"Picture time ~ put on that smile...
It's holidays ~ forget that child!"
"Now let's take time to give thanks ~
We'll name our kids ~ Just leave yours blank..."
Uhmm... I can't come...I'm on a diet ~
I'll stay home, have...peace and quiet!
How thankful I am this year...
God comes close to catch each tear...
Thirty plus years ago, I remember diligently studying the Kubler-Ross, Stages of Dying. People seem to like stages. They suggest a distinct time frame for a particular sequence of events and tend to provide an orderly progression that people can understand easily. Lots of things come in stages, like baby food, diapers, dating, marriage, pregnancy, relationships, and life. Somewhere along the way it was discovered that people who are dying go through stages too; and it would follow that those grieving a death would also go through some similar stages as well. The problem with death, dying, loss and grief is it is not orderly or uniform. It is very individual and "stages" do not allow for us to be human. The problem with stages for grieving is people want you to get through them as quickly as possible so discomfiture is limited for all concerned. Another problem with defined stages for grief is if you do not progress through the stages in the proper order and in a timely manner, people began to think something is seriously wrong and perhaps horror of all horrors; you have become "stuck" in your grief. These stages put a lot of pressure on a person to conform to these "expected" mile markers along the way. Fortunately in recent years, new research data and studies on grief and the people who are grieving have been forthcoming. (And I should say that after thirty years, it's about time!) It is now more widely accepted and understood that everyone does not need to go through any or all of these stages and there is certainly no proper order or time frame for a person to work through their grief. The night I lost you
someone pointed me towards
the Five Stages of Grief
Go that way, they said,
it's easy, like learning to climb
stairs after the amputation.
And so I climbed.
Denial was first.
I sat down at breakfast
carefully setting the table
for two. I passed you the toast---
you sat there. I passed
you the paper---you hid
behind it.
Anger seemed so familiar.
I burned the toast, snatched
the paper and read the headlines myself.
But they mentioned your departure,
and so I moved on to
Bargaining. What could I exchange
for you? The silence
after storms? My typing fingers?
Before I could decide, Depression
came puffing up, a poor relation
its suitcase tied together
with string. In the suitcase
were bandages for the eyes
and bottles sleep. I slid
all the way down the stairs
feeling nothing.
And all the time Hope
flashed on and off
in detective neon.
Hope was a signpost pointing
straight in the air.
Hope was my uncle's middle name,
he died of it.
After a year I am still climbing, though my feet slip
on your stone face.
The treeline
has long since disappeared;
green is a color
I have forgotten.
But now I see what I am climbing
towards: Acceptance
written in capital letters,
a special headline:
Acceptance
its name is in lights.
I struggle on,
waving and shouting.
Below, my whole life spreads its surf,
all the landscapes I've ever known
or dreamed of. Below
a fish jumps: the pulse
in your neck.
Acceptance. I finally
reach it.
But something is wrong.
Grief is a circular staircase.
I have lost you.
With what a deep devotedness of woe
I wept thy absence - o'er and o'er again
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,
And memory, like a drop that, night and day,
Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away!
~Thomas Moore
Kahlil Gibran
He would live in a tiny house.
