I was reminded early this morning that today is the birthday of one of my best friends to whom I had to say goodbye about three years ago. A wonderful emissary of joy named Helen. She's been with me all day long, on my snowy walk across campus to teach, during a concert at the library tonight, as I sit here on my couch typing this post.
Sharon Olds says goodbye . . .
Farewell Poem
by: Sharon Olds
(for M. M. O., 1880-1974)
The big, cut iceberg waits
outside the harbor like a spaceship.
Sends in emissaries: cold
chopped fish, floating cakes,
canoes of ice white as brides.
Lurks just beyond the warm
furred lip of the harbor, summer
berries in the bushes, loud stink
of fish drying on salty wooden
slats. Waits. Hides nine
tenths of its iron implacable
bulk under the belt of the water,
frigid as cods' teeth, even
now in July. The sea bathes
her endless pale scarred hips.
The berg sits, cute as a hat,
snowy as egret feathers, waiting
to call the next one out to the other
world beyond the absolutely
frozen vessel.
She walks down
to the water without her walker.
With none of her three canes she was always
losing, joking about, looking for,
finding over her arm. She just
had her hair done, silver curls
obedient as ivy tendrils
over her child's brow. She wears
the grey dress with a white collar,
sensible shoes, white socks,
diamond pin, sets her foot
on the cloudy crystal of an ice floe
and floats out to her mother, floats
out to the white iceberg waiting
ninety-three years for hot death
to deliver his favorite daughter home to
the cool white long room,
lace curtains from the parlor flying
like flags in the summer sky.
Saying farewell is never easy. Putting a loved one on an ice floe and watching her sail away to that cool white long room, as Olds says.
But I've never really had to say farewell to Helen, because I feel her presence all the time, as I did today. Often since her memorial service, I've wanted to send her a text with a picture of something beautiful--a snowy tree, an eagle eating a fish, my daughter on her college graduation day, my son in his ugly Christmas sweater. Images I know Helen would have loved.
She was light. She was joy. Period. She was everyone's best friend. Everyone's cheerleader. Everyone's shoulder to cry on. She wasn't a saint, by any means But she was a force of nature, and, like any force of nature, she changed the landscape of the world.
Selfishly, I wish Helen were still here, on this planet, with me and everyone who loved her. Yet, I know she IS still here. I hear her right now in the wind rattling my window, making the trees dance.
Saint Marty wrote a poem today for his pal, Helen, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
On this day in history in 1892, James Naismith (who is also credited for the first football helmet) published the rules for the sport of basketball. Write a poem made up of rules for something that does not yet have rules written for it. It could be "Rules for Wearing a Top Hat" or "Rules for Digging a Grave." Start by making a list of at least three activities that don't have rules, then choose one to focus on.
Rules for Celebrating
a Dead Friend's Birthday
by: Martin Achatz
for Helen
Go for a long hike, at least ten miles. Don't pack any protein bars or granola. Forage as you walk, for blueberries, frozen mint, sweet maple sap.
Handwrite letters to everyone you love, include quotes from Mary Oliver or Desmond Tutu or Rumi, draw hearts to dot your i's, use the word joy at least 20 times.
Buy flowers for yourself, whatever's in season--winter jasmine, calla lily, sweet pea--put them in a vase by a window, next to some stones you found on the shores of Lake Superior, watch how the sun turns them into a constellation, name the constellation after yourself.
Eat dark chocolate mixed with sea salt and some kind of fruit--cranberry or cherry or candied orange peel--share it with anyone you meet, even your neighbor who's been flying a Trump flag every day since 2015.
See a bald eagle in a blue sky, compose a poem on the spot, then text it to all the contacts in your phone, followed by at least seven exclamation points.
When the moon climbs the ladder of night, stand in your backyard, make wolf sounds, dance as if your life depends on it.
Don't stop until you're sure all the stars know your name.
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