Tonight, I screened the film Gladiator II at the library. The entire time I watched it, I was thinking about my sister, Sally, who loved Gladiator, mainly because of Russell Crowe. I'm not sure Sal would have enjoyed the sequel all that much, because of the serious lack of Russell Crowe in the movie. But her spirit was certainly sitting right next to me the whole time, watching.
Sharon Olds writes an elegy for a lost young love . . .
Cambridge Elegy
by: Sharon Olds
(for Henry Averell Gerry, 1941-60)
I scarcely know how to speak to you now,
you are so young now, closer to my daughter's age
than mine -- but I have been there and seen it, and must
tell you, as the seeing and hearing
spell the world into the deaf-mute's hand.
The dormer windows like the ears of a fox, like the
long row of teats on a pig, still
perk up over the Square, though they're digging up the
street now, as if digging a grave,
the shovels shrieking on stone like your car
sliding along on its roof after the crash.
How I wanted everyone to die I if you had to die,
how sealed into my own world I was,
deaf and blind. What can I tell you now,
now that I know so much and you are a
freshman, still, drinking a quart of orange juice and
playing three sets of tennis to cure a hangover, such an
ardent student of the grown-ups! I can tell you
we were right, our bodies were right, life was
really going to be that good, that
pleasurable in every cell.
Suddenly I remember the exact look of your body, but
better than the bright corners of your eyes, or the
light of your face, the rich Long Island
pleasurable in every cell.
Suddenly I remember the exact look of your body, but
better than the bright corners of your eyes, or the
light of your face, the rich Long Island
puppy-fat of your thighs, or the shined
chino of your pants bright in the corners of my eyes, I
remember your extraordinary act of courage in
loving me, something no one but the
blind and halt had done before. You were
fearless, you could drive after a sleepless night
just like a grown-up, and not be afraid, you could
fall asleep at the wheel easily and
never know it, each blond hair of your head--and they were
thickly laid--put out like a filament of light,
twenty years ago. The Charles still
slides by with that ease that made me bitter when I
wanted all things broken and rigid as the
bricks in the sidewalk or your love for me
stopped cell by cell in your young body.
Ave--I went ahead and had the children,
the life of ease and faithfulness, the
palm and the breast, every millimeter of delight in the body,
I took the road we stood on at the start together, I
took it all without you as if
in taking it after all I could most
honor you.
chino of your pants bright in the corners of my eyes, I
remember your extraordinary act of courage in
loving me, something no one but the
blind and halt had done before. You were
fearless, you could drive after a sleepless night
just like a grown-up, and not be afraid, you could
fall asleep at the wheel easily and
never know it, each blond hair of your head--and they were
thickly laid--put out like a filament of light,
twenty years ago. The Charles still
slides by with that ease that made me bitter when I
wanted all things broken and rigid as the
bricks in the sidewalk or your love for me
stopped cell by cell in your young body.
Ave--I went ahead and had the children,
the life of ease and faithfulness, the
palm and the breast, every millimeter of delight in the body,
I took the road we stood on at the start together, I
took it all without you as if
in taking it after all I could most
honor you.
It's so difficult losing a person at a younger age. It sounds as if Olds had made life plans with Henry Averell Gerry. Those plans included marriage and children. Olds saw those plans become reality, without Gerry's presence. She writes the elegy to let him know she's done it--gone down "the road we stood on at the start together"--honoring his youth and potential.
My sister Sal was taken way too early by lymphoma of the brain. I know she had plans. She had retirement accounts, a nice camper, nieces and nephews she spoiled. Always generous, Sal celebrated each Christmas and birthday as if it was going to be the last. She gave of herself freely, without ever asking for repayment. That's who she was.
But, of course, you can't have life without death. Joy without grief. Love without loss. That's the way it works. Everything is defined by its opposite. You can't know if something tastes salty unless you taste sweet. Summer can't really be enjoyed unless you know the ice of winter. Abbott would have been nothing without Costello.
I would never give up the time I had with Sal simply to avoid the pain of her loss. Unfortunately, those two things go hand-in-hand. There was always going to be grief, whether she died first or me. The depth of love I felt for my sister is defined by sorrow I feel at her absence. As I said, you can't have one without the other.
So, Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about attraction and opposition, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Write a poem about a pair of something (of a pair of people) in couplet form (a couplet is a two-line stanza). Make sure each line in the couplet compliments the other in sound and image; for example, if your first line is about a bride maybe include an image of a groom in the second line or perhaps a veil and bouquet. Make a list of pairs--Bert and Ernie, apples and oranges, his and hers--then write in couplets inspired by the couple you choose.
Opposites Attract
by: Martin Achatz
Mary Oliver knew this, paired joy
with grief in the same poem,
the way my dad paired 7-Up
with Seven Crown every night
and the moon sometimes sits
in the sky with morning sun,
because it's a matter of negative
calling to positive, magnetically,
Romeo betraying his family name
by falling for Juliet at first sight,
or Robert Redford jumping off
that cliff with Paul Newman.
Salt defines sugar. Satan defines
God. You can't have one without
the other. Just ask the fish swimming
with birds in the reflected clouds.
