Witness

An early morning walk as the sun rises. A placid pond. Four geese silently floating. Then a great clamor from water and sky, a large bird of prey flapping out of a cove clutching something in its talons, a pair of low flying geese screaming behind it, wings beating double time. They fly one above, one below the bird of prey. As the three wheel about, the talons release their treasure. Something falls amid the floating geese and splashes - an egg, a fledgling? I stare into the sun and cannot be sure.

As if it does not matter, the bird of prey flaps toward land and perches high in a pine. The pursuing geese speed away, back to the cove. The geese on the pond circle and talk, circle and talk. I am merely a witness. I walk on. When I return half an hour later, the geese on the pond are still talking about it.

Out On a Song

"Know that death in life is here,
with every breaking day..."

Forrest Carter, The Education of Little Tree.

Ian with me on the top of the mountain when he came to visit in 2002.

Some dear friends had to lay the body of their son/stepson/brother to rest today. He changed form two weeks ago when he stepped in front of a fast-moving lorry. To lose a child is impossible to imagine. To even think of it makes my breath stop. My heart aches for all of us left behind, for missing Ian will be never-ending. We'll recall him with joy, of course. We will laugh again and take pleasure in remembering his antics, his great and wicked sense of humor, his very being in our lives. From experience, I know the pain of his absence will ease, will morph into something bearable. But it will never disappear entirely. 

Today, though, the grief is still fresh, raw, hard to bear. Driving home from my daughter's house this morning, I unaccountably burst into tears. Glancing at the clock reminded me - this was the day of Ian's funeral, now, because this morning was this afternoon in England where Ian lived and where services were being held by his family. I had to pull the car over to the side of the road so I could weep. There was a click, a change of cds in the player and suddenly Eric Clapton and JJ Cale were singing, as though on cue, a song of godspeed, of joy and release and the end of having to wait for something longed for.

These are things I wish for Ian. So, here you go my lovely adopted English son. Here's a song to see you on your way. 

Ride The River

Poetry to Prompts

Written to the prompts of "letter" and "starlight".

Letter to Starlight and You

There is a certain shade of blue

that belongs to dusk,

a sky-blue-pink

that draws my eyes to the window,

that draws me out the door,

a softening of the hard line

where earth meets sky

so that I can see past the horizon

into everlasting space,

the space where you are

now that I can’t see you.

If the sky were a map

you’d be here, just above the line

where tree and air intersect,

a red pin marking the exact spot

where I saw you last,

bed-bound and bruised, breathing

one more and one more and one last

breath.

The sky was dusky that night, too,

headed toward black, and we two headed

in different directions; you to an unknown

destination and I to home, where

out my window, I watched the stars

blink into view.

Remembering

My Mama would have celebrated her 94th birthday today. She didn't live past the age of 65 and I still miss her presence.

She was a city girl who moved to the country to teach in a rural high school. She was a small woman, not more than 5' 3" in heels and she loved stylish clothes. She wore her beautiful cornsilk hair in a roll around her head. She was every inch a lady though I became aware as I grew up that she hid a sharp wit and a clever tongue behind that facade. She could quell an unruly 8th grade boy with a look, a practice she brought to bear in motherhood as well. We children didn't get away with much.

Though she grew up on the outskirts of a thriving city with all the amenities a city has to offer, when she married my father and moved to a rural area an hour and a half away she learned in a hurry how to grow food for her growing family, cook the game my father loved to hunt, and keep an old house in good shape. I played dress-up in her beautiful, seldom-worn dresses and skirts while she turned to slacks and housedresses. Living on a chicken farm where she raised a large vegetable garden, chopped wood for the fire, tended flower beds and chased spiders with dust cloth and broom was dirty work.

It was her cheerfulness that I remember most, and her steadfastness. Gracious is a word I have always associated with Mama. She  could be counted on to look for and find the best in everyone, to weasel the silver lining out of the darkest cloud, to embrace trouble head on and find a peaceful solution, to look at all of life with an attitude of awe and appreciation.

It helps to think of her now, to imagine what she would say in the face of the sudden deaths of two great friends in the space of three weeks. I can hear her soft steady voice in my head telling me to look for ways to comfort those friends left behind, and to find ways to let myself grieve. I take long walks, write poetry, find green places to sit while I weep with abandon. Healing will come, she whispers to me, only after you walk willingly through the shadows.