We spent most of it traveling. My daughter and her significant other moved downstate for her to attend medical school, so we caravanned to Mount Pleasant and helped them unload belongings into their new home. Then we went out for dinner after returning the U-haul truck.
Now, I’m sitting in a hotel room. My son is swimming, and my wife is snoring (loudly) in bed. I’ve been trying to process my current state of mind, sorting and cataloging my feelings.
Sharon Olds deals with some strong emotions . . .
The Feelings
by: Sharon Olds
When the intern listened to the stopped heart
I stared at him, as if he or I
were wild, were from some other world, I had
lost the language of features, I could not
know what it meant for a stranger to push
the gown up along the body of my father.
My face was wet, my father’s face
was faintly moist with the sweat of his life,
the last moments of hard work.
I was leaning against the wall, in the corner, and
he lay on the bed, we were both doing something
and everyone else in the room believed in the Christian God,
they called my father the shell on the bed, I was the
only one there who knew
he was entirely gone, the only one
there to say goodbye to his body
that was all he was, I held, hard,
to his foot, I thought of the Inuit elder
holding the stern of the death canoe, I
let him out slowly into the physical world.
I felt the dryness of his lips under
my lips, I felt how even my slight
kiss moved his head on the pillow
they way things move as if on their own in shallow water,
I felt his hair rush through my fingers
like a wolf’s, the walls shifted, the floor, the
ceiling wheeled as if I was not
walking out of the room but the room was
backing away around me. I would have
liked to stay beside him, ride by his
shoulder while they drove him to the place where they would
burn him,
see him safely into the fire,
touch his ashes in their warmth, and bring my
finger to my tongue. The next morning,
I felt my husband’s body on me
crushing me sweetly like a weight laid heavy on some
soft thing, some fruit, holding me
hard to this world. Yes the tears came
out like juice and sugar from the fruit—
the skin thins, and breaks, and rips, there are
laws on this earth, and we live by them.
Yes, there are laws on this earth, and we all have to live by them. Gravity. Relativity. Motion. We don’t even think about most of these universal laws. They just occur naturally.
There are other, unwritten laws, as well. Don’t eat yellow snow. Don’t shit where you eat. (That was one of my dad’s favorites.). Don’t vote for a convicted felon to be President of the United States and expect it to turn out well. You get the idea. It’s all common sense.
Kids are supposed to grow up, move out, and create lives for themselves. That’s one of the laws of parenting, as I’ve been saying these last couple weeks. Mothers and fathers eventually work themselves out of a job. They become outmoded.
My daughter spread her wings today, and all I can do as her father is gaze up at the heavens and watch her fly. And be happy. Can’t say that I’ve reached the “happy” part of that formula yet. I’m sort of stuck in the “where did all the time go?” phase.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled for my daughter and her significant other. She’s had this doctor dream since she was a young girl, and seeing her dreams come true is thrilling. I’m just struggling with the whole letting go. (It seems like Olds is having a hard time with letting go of her father in today’s poem, as well.)
Letting go has never been my strong suit. I don’t like change. Hate it when Walmart rearranges its merchandise. I reread favorite novels because then I know what to expect, plot-wise. I rewatch movies and TV shows for the same reason. As the husband of one of my best friends once said, “There’s nothing wrong with sameness.”
But, today, sameness doesn’t cut it. I have to let go. My daughter has always been smarter than me and more together than me. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up, but she has known the answer to that question since she was about eight or nine years old. That doesn’t make this process any easier.
I’m sure, when my wife, son, and I get in the car tomorrow morning to head home, there are going to be tears shed. (I think that’s a law on this earth, as well.) This parting will be a first for all of us. I thought it was bad when she moved just a half mile away. Now, she’s going to be almost six hours away. I predict weeping for a good portion of the return trip. (Another law.) Lots of difficult feelings to sort through.
Saint Marty wrote a poem about feelings and fears for tonight, based on the following prompt from July 9 of The Daily Poet:
This exercise is inspired by the poetry of Aimee Nezhukumatathil, author of At the Drive-in Volcano (Tupelo Press, 2007). Write a poem about one or more phobias. Do you have alliumphobia, a fear of garlic? Or how about enetophobia, a fear of pins? You can access a complete list of phobias at: www.phobialist.com. For inspiration, take a peek at Aimee’s wonderful poem “Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia,” published at www.slate.com/articles/arts/poem/2004/01/hippopotomonstrosequippedaliophobia.html
Phobophobia
by: Martin Achatz
“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”
— Franklin Delano Roosevelt
I discovered I am afraid of heights
on top of the Empire State Building
on a cold March afternoon, which is like
finding out you’re afraid of water
by booking passage on the Lusitania
or realizing clowns terrify you
when you enroll in Ringling Bros.
Clown College. FDR tried to comfort
shanty towns and soup kitchens
by ranking fear as Public Enemy
Number One, before Pretty Boy Floyd
and John Dillinger. This morning,
I’m scheduled for a root canal. When I say
those two words, friends wince,
look at me as if I’ve just announced
a terminal diagnosis. I see it
written on their faces—capital “F”
fear—even though I’m the one
facing shots and drilling. Perhaps
it’s contagious, like whooping
cough or measles. Soon we’ll be
in the middle of a global fear
pandemic, everyone sheltering
in place to avoid black cats, broken
mirrors, cracks in the sidewalk.
We’ll sit at home, binge Tiger King
again, get all nostalgic for when
that fat spider in the bathtub was
the only thing we had to worry about.
❤️JT
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