This year, July 4th has a different vibe for me. It feels as if the country that I know and love (for all its flaws, and there are many) is dying right before my eyes, every minute of every day.
Sharon Olds writes about her dying father . . .
The Glass
by: Sharon Olds
I think of it with wonder now,
the glass of mucus that stood on the table
in front of my father all weekend. The tumor
is growing fast in his throat these days,
and as it grows it sends out pus
like the sun sending out flares, those pouring
tongues. So my father has to gargle, cough,
spit a mouth full of thick stuff
into the glass every ten minutes or so,
scraping the rim up his lower lip
to get the last bit off his skin, then he
sets the glass down, on the table, and it
sits there, like a glass of beer foam,
shiny and faintly golden, he gargles and
coughs and reaches for it again,
and gets the heavy sputum out,
full of bubbles and moving around like yeast–
he is like a god producing food from his own mouth.
He himself can eat nothing, anymore,
just a swallow of milk, sometimes,
cut with water, and even then
it cannot, always, get past the tumor,
and the next time the saliva comes up
it is ropey, he has to roll it in his throat
a minute to form it and get it up and dis-
gorge the oval globule into the
glass of phlegm, which stood there all day and
filled slowly with the compound globes and I would
empty it, and it would fill again,
filled slowly with the compound globes and I would
empty it, and it would fill again,
and shimmer there on the table until
the room seemed to turn around it
in an orderly way, a model of the solar system
turning around the sun,
my father the dark earth that used to
lie at the center of the universe, now
turning around the sun,
my father the dark earth that used to
lie at the center of the universe, now
turning with the rest of us
around his death, luminous glass of
around his death, luminous glass of
spit on the table, these last mouthfuls of his life.
Yes, death brings people together. Doesn't matter what or who is dying. I've been in a few rooms when members of my family were breathing their last breaths. It's a difficult and sacred moment--full of sadness and gratitude, saying goodbye and thankyou at the same time.
Will this be the last time the United States will commemorate independence and freedom on July 4th? I'm not sure. Next year, will we all be forced to attend goose-stepping, book-burning parades and rallies? I don't know. At least to me, I don't feel quite as independent and free as I did last year on this day. Perhaps I am witnessing the death of democracy in the United States.
Typically, I would attend at least two parades and a fireworks display on Independence Day. Not this year. Instead, I hosted a barbecue this evening for friends and family as a kind of send-off for my daughter and her significant other (they will be moving downstate in about a week for my daughter to attend medical school). So, we served up standard July 4th cuisine--hotdogs and bratwurst and watermelon and pasta salad and delicious, chocolaty desserts. We told family stories. Played croquet. Loved each other.
I'm trying not to get all maudlin about my daughter moving away. It's difficult, though. My job as a father these last 24 years has been to protect her, keep her out of harm's way as much as possible. Now, I'm not sure what my job duties will be, and she's inheriting a country that seems less kind, less loving, less free.
So, you'll excuse me if I don't stand up with my hand over my heart this evening.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight based on the following prompt from July 2 of The Daily Poet:
Happy birthday to Nobel Prize-winning poet Wislawa Szymborska! Szymborska, born in Western Poland and lifelong resident of Krakow, was known not only for her fiercely political poems but for revealing the profound truths in the everyday experience of living. In her honor, today's assignment is to write a poem of apology. Don't apologize for minor things, like forgetting to close the windows during a rainstorm; apologize to abstractions such as hope, necessity, chance, and loyalty. For further inspiration, read Syzmborska's poem "Under a Certain Little Star," which can be found through an Internet search.
July 4th Apologia in the Time of Trump
by: Martin Achatz
I'm sorry to compassion for not having
an extra bologna sandwich and pillow.
I'm also sorry to justice for taking
a nap this afternoon.
Freedom, please don't hold it against me
if I forget your name.
And, common sense, you and I both know
that throwing salt over your shoulder
won't change any outcome or mind.
Laughter, I've known you a long time, but
I've blocked your texts
until you come up with new jokes.
Independence, I'm sorry I mowed my lawn
so the rabbits have to visit
my neighbor's yard when they get hungry.
My condolences, pride, for leaving my shoes
in the middle of the living room
floor to trip over.
But I can't say I'm sorry, patriotism,
for not inviting you to tonight's barbecue.
You see, I prefer to hang with
poets who don't mind sharing
the last hotdog on the grill
with the migrant worker next door.
Because everyone should know
what liberty tastes like.
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