Tiny Baby Turtle Dead

Hiking a day of discoveries
There were age old tracks
Flanked by pastures of wild willy-nilly trees and shrubs
And farms of orderly pines leading us to frog talk
A regular confabulation of frog talk.

There were age old trails
Sloping up to the sky leading hearts upward toward hope and spring
Forking north and right
Beckoning: take me, take me, now.

There were miles of leaves underfoot
Creating and concealing the muddy, squishy path
Layers lessening and making way for sand and moss.
To revealing traces of winter survival.

There is a hole dug in the sand; a ravaged little pit
Surrounded by broken shriveled egg shells.
And a tiny baby turtle dead remains--
Telling the tale of its little tragedy.

She takes up the dirty little thing
Still fragile in death
But a bit of a thing perfect in many ways;
Promise at an end; future denied.

It seems important to cherish it
Care for it in death as it deserved in life.
Perhaps she should have passed by the turtle,
Evidence of the violent ebb and flow of living and not living
Perhaps she has not let go of other dead things.

But the day of discoveries was a trek upward and happy.
Perhaps the turtle is in is proper place within the day.

We hurt our necks

Changing the shower curtain liner
reaching up, to the rod
over our heads
arms held high for just forever
squeezing and un-squeezing
un-threading and threading,
ring by ring hurts our necks.

My river

You can have your mighty Niagara and Mississippi;
I have mine, the River It is mine.
The swift current, the cold depths
The dock above, the waving weeds below.
Wide in space; dividing 2 nations.
Uniting lake and sea and sphere.

We wear fins and masks to delve the deep
And swim around the island.
Scary, monster rocks swell before out eyes;
weeds licking at our legs.
It must not touch me, any of it.
Ooo, my chest is tight, but I must see.
Water must encase me safely as I search
her depths.

My river. It is mine.
On a good day, the surface shatters the sun
into innumerable twinkling stars.
On a bad day the wind whips up white caps
and hides the floor of the water filled canyon
of my heart’s home.
There are no bad days.
My face is wet from rain or spray or tears.

We zoom about our water world by day…
waiting for glass, waiting to ski, skiing.
Fishing for sunfish in the slips for fun
with worms and bread;
or cast for pike and bass with lures.
Just to be on the river, near enough to see her…
in the quiet dawn or dusk.
My river. It is mine.

Just to be on the river, near enough to see her
at all times. Like the need for air.
My river. It is mine.
She is in my soul. She is in my heart.
Sold or not. She is mine. My river.
St. Lawrence. St. Lawrence.

Miss Berry sallies forth

7:30 January 17, 2009 Canandaigua, NY
Temperature: 21 degrees Wind: SSE 9 mmh

I let her out. Undaunted.

Not much new snow, lots of wind.
She saunters, sniffs casually.
Spies something.

Someone is out shoveling
in their pajamas and coat.
… what are they thinking?

She returns to sniffing and searching.
Her tail like a semaphore signaling planes,
her fur wind-blown, in no hurry.

I watch the shovel-er.
Does he like to shovel more than I?
Evidently. I am not out.

No, not shoveling.
He’s getting his paper
and scurrying back inside.

She begins to circle. One, two, three.
She’s looking worried. Six, seven, eight.
Still not right. Nine, ten—Ah.

Another paper retriever sortie
She’s done. I don’t need to call her.
She races for the door.

I let her in. So proud of herself.

I pivot

One foot is fixed.
It will not move
From where it stands.
The other strikes out
Wanting to move forward.
Or, perhaps to the left.
I pivot, to the right.
I know I cannot go back.
No progress is made.
When can I walk into the future?
Even one moment would do.
It is so painful to stay here.
Fixed in nowhere land.

With every setting sun

With every setting sun my sweetheart falls from the sky
And ends my day.
I want to be a missile fired into that final blast of light.
Race, explode and die.

For Hospice Class
The Harley School

Grieving
The stages of grieving?

I have done a lot of grieving in my life. I have grieved over the loss of my first dog. It was I who decided to put her to sleep. I have grieved over moving from my first home of thirteen years. No, I wasn’t grieving then. I was very excited about moving. Leaving my old life and starting my new life. The new me who would live the new life. But it did not turn out as I had expected, so I grieved over the loss of my first life. I did a lot of grieving from ages 13 to 17. Mostly for myself. Is that grieving? The loss of confidence and optimism and hope?

And I grieved tremendously over the loss of my dad. My champion, who believed in me. What was I grieving? My loss of his presence in my life? My loss of the bond between us? Is grieving all about my losses”? Is grieving about those left behind?

And there were “lesser” deaths—ones that did not diminish me.

“Any man's death diminishes me, because
I am involved in Mankind; And therefore
never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.”
John Donne

John Donne’s diminishing is for the anticipated loss of our own lives--as we must all leave this life. Leave others behind.

But an individual’s diminishment after death is not the possibility of future pain; it is ever-present punishing pain. It is visceral. It is unplanned, emotional expression and physically exhausting. Grief is a rude visitor arriving at the oddest times with only a hint of invitation or expectation. Yes, he is supposed to show up after death, but often you are in no way prepared for how deeply insidious his presence is. And for how he lingers.

Before Jack died, we both grieved at our cruelly diminished prospects, but we turned our energies into attacking the disease and attending to daily living. It was both sweet and tenuous. Keeping grief at bay.

But as things progressed and we fell behind in our mission and I knew as Jack did not want to believe that our lives were taking another turn down a darker narrower path, then grief was a more frequent shadow hovering nearby. I however had the blessed opportunity to serve. It was not grief. There is no place for grief really at this point as you have a calling to concentrate on giving comfort. Choice is not involved. I was given a gift.

But then it ends. The luxury of time slowed to days, hours, moments, breaths ends.

Here now is the flurry of activity as traditions demands rites and ceremony. In my case it was wonderful. A final chance to make a mark to show that my Jack was a wonderful human being. To honor him.

Then the lonely journey begins. Details swirl around as Mr. Grief shows up routinely to drive you mad. To remind you of what has been ripped out of your heart. Of how fragile you are now. How incomplete. How weak. Practically a brainless shell. Incompetent.

However, life demands forward movement. So, you put one foot in front of the other, you dress, you show up, you look for bright spots around you. You don’t really care. Well, you care, but not in a controlling sort of way. More of a along–for-the-ride sort of way. And if you are lucky, you make fun of grief. You pick on him. You kick him around a bit, banish him for hours at a time. And when he is absent and when you see the daylight and can think all at the same time, you try to plan a little future for yourself.

And then the details of life grab you again and bring you somewhere else. Perhaps it’s forward—plan a party, buy eggs and milk or maybe it’s only sideways for the moment—do some work, did I pay the bills? or even backwards—I think I’ll read all day or run away to Paris.

The stages of grief. I wouldn’t know. They come and go, they paralyze, they squeeze you so hard you think you will die and you know you are alive. I think they get fewer and farther between. And that’s the best you can do. Grieving and leaving.

Respectfully submitted,
Sam