I spent yesterday in Calumet, Michigan, leading a writing workshop, attending a catered dinner, doing a poetry reading. I left home at around 7:30 a.m., finally got back around 11:30 p.m. I’ve been in recovery mode today.
On my way to Calumet, I received a text message from my sister-in-law. (Really, she’s like my little sister. I’ve known her since she was since she was 11 or 12. We’ve always had a close bond.) She wanted to let me know that her mother-in-law, Ann—a lovely, courageous woman who’s been battling cancer for several years—died early Saturday morning.
It was news I’d been expecting, but it still caught me off guard.
Sharon Olds writes about a tragedy . . .
1954
by: Sharon Olds
he had put on her face. And her training bra
scared me—the newspapers, morning and evening,
kept saying it, training bra,
as if the cups of it had been calling
the breasts up, he buried her in it,
perhaps he had never bothered to take it
off, and they found her underpants
in a garbage can. And I feared the word
eczema, like my acne and like
the X in the paper which marked her body,
as if he had killed her for not being flawless.
I feared his name, Burton Abbott,
the first name that was a last name,
as if he were not someone specific.
It was nothing one could learn from his face.
His face was dull and ordinary,
it took away what I’d thought I could count on
about evil. He looked thin and lonely,
it was horrifying, he looked almost humble.
I felt awe that dirt was so impersonal,
and pity for the training bra,
pity and terror of eczema.
And I could not sit on my mother’s electric
blanket anymore, I began to have
a fear of electricity—
the good people, the parents, were going
to fry him to death. This was what
his parents had been telling us:
Burton Abbott, Burton Abbott,
death to the person, death to the home planet.
The worst thing would have been to think
of her, of what it had been to be her,
alive, to be walked, alive, into that cabin,
to look into those eyes, and see the human.
to look into those eyes, and see the human.
It’s a terrible poem about an unspeakable act—the murder of a young woman. But Olds, as always, goes underneath the unspeakable to find the speakable, the human. She imagines what the victim went through at the end, staring into the eyes of her killer.
I think, in the face of tragedy and loss, we lose sight of the human. Instead, we mythologize and canonize. It happens all the time, and it’s natural, especially when it involves a loved one. We lose sight of the whole person and focus, instead, on that person’s best qualities. Again, as I said, it’s a natural part of the grieving process.
Ann was an incredibly loving, giving person. In all the time I knew her, I never saw her without a smile on her face, even when she was facing her health crises. She had a ready laugh and an even readier heart. Love was her guiding force, always. My family was graced by her and her husband’s generous spirits more times than I can count.
I write these things not to mythologize, as so often is the case when a person is taken at too young an age. I write these things simply because they are true. The world is a little dimmer tonight without Ann in it, and my heart breaks for her family, who I consider my family, too.
In honor of Ann, hug the people you cherish tonight. Tell them how much they mean to you. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Ann never did.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight. It’s about the sustaining power of breath, and it’s based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
In an abecedarian poem, every line begins with A, B, C, D, etc. Write a mini-abecedarian poem where each word in the poem is in alphabetical order. For example, the first line of a mini-abecedarian poem could be: Another big cactus dies entertainingly. Forget giving. Help invent . . or Autumn birds can desire eggs from groceries . . . See if you can write an entire poem this way. Don’t worry too much about making sense, just see what new images or lines you can invent.
All Breath
by: Martin Achatz
All breath comes down easily,
falls, goes hushed into juniper,
knobcone, locust, makes nobody
opine past questions, read sunspots
to understand various worries,
xenial yatter, zealotry.
