September 11: Once a Year, September 11 Anniversary, Judith Minty, "Hawk," Adventures of Stickman

And once a year, in the winter, a day or two after Christmas, he and Annie would visit their son's grave.  Standing in the cemetery before his son's marker out in Long Island, as the years went by, Ives did not for a moment envision a seventeen-year-old in eternal repose, but a man the age his son would have been.  And there were occasions when he viewed the grave as some kind of "stopover" his son had made on his way to another, more beautiful place.  Sometimes Ives felt that a kind of trick had been played on him.  Why else would he walk into a church and have the sensation that his son was that priest up by the altar, raising the Host and saying Mass?  Why did he often think that he would see Robert again, his face serene and secure in his intimate knowledge of the Lord, that way Ives once used to see it?

The annual pilgrimages that Ives makes to his son's grave are not passive moments of reflection and sadness.  Even years after Robert's murder, Ives continues to imagine that his son grew up, entered the seminary, and became a priest.  Robert is not frozen in Ives' mind.  Instead, Robert grows older, grayer, wiser.  Basically, he is everything that Ives dreamed he would be.

Today was the fourteenth anniversary of the 9-11 attacks.  There were concerts performed, poems recited, and songs sung.  This evening, I attended a football game at my daughter's school.  Before the game began, the announcer asked everyone in the stadium seats to stand and observe a moment of silence.  And then, as the flag was raised to half-staff, the pep band played the national anthem.

I found the moment incredibly moving.  For those few moments, it felt like everyone was united in remembrance.  A collective grief and pride.  I could hear a few people in the stands singing The Star Spangled Banner quietly. 

I often wonder why it takes tragedy to bring human beings together.  For my sister's funeral, my brother from Pennsylvania came.  It was the first time I'd seen him in several years.  In the days following the 9-11 attacks,. I felt incredibly close to everyone--family, friends, complete strangers.  Everyone comes together in moments of despair.

I do not have any pithy words of wisdom this evening.  In honor of the thousands of people who lost their lives on this day fourteen years ago, I offer two things:  1) a prayer of healing for anyone who is grieving a loss; and 2) a poem.

Saint Marty has no fairy tale this evening.  There is no happily ever after on this day for many people.

Hawk

by:  Judith Minty

Dead hawk outside my bedroom window,
even the cats won't touch it.
I laid low for three days,
didn't leave the house,
and wrote my Cherokee friend.
He hasn't answered, the hawk's
been waiting.  Today I took

the tail feathers and geet.
I feel worst about the feet,
hanging from the backporch beam--
fists clenched, claws like my own hand
holding the knife.  I knew
when the other one flew over, keening,
he wouldn't recognize her like that.

               --Jacoby Creek, California

Adventures of STICKMAN

March 6: Nursing Home, Rita Dove, "Your Death"

Last night, my sister--early fifties, photographic memory, stubborn as an iceberg--was transferred from the hospital to a nursing home.  She certainly didn't want to go there, but I think she also knows it was the only real alternative that would keep her safe.  That's doesn't make it any easier.

I've been thinking about her all day.  A year ago, she was in charge of an outpatient surgery center, supervising around ten employees.  She knew every aspect of the place, from registering the patients to sterilizing the instruments to circulating the operating room.  She was someone who solved problems, helped people.  Now, she can't even get out of bed by herself.

I'm telling myself this is a temporary situation.  She'll get better and soon be able to come home.  But she will be unemployed.  Probably on disability.  And the surgery center, which she literally built from blueprints to grand opening, will be under another person's direction.

There's no happily ever after in this post. No punchline.  Sorry.

Saint Marty doesn't even have a happy Rita Dove poem tonight.

Your Death

by:  Rita Dove

On the day that will always belong to you,
lunar clockwork had faltered
and I was certain.  Walking
the streets of Manhattan I thought:
Remember this day.  I felt already
like an urn, filling with wine.

To celebrate, your son and I
took a stroll through Bloomingdale's
where he developed a headache
among the copper skillets and
tiers of collapsible baskets.
Pain tracked us through
the china, driving us
finally to the subway
and home,

where the phone was ringing
with bad news.  Even now,
my new daughter
asleep in the crib, I can't shake
the moment his headache stopped
and the day changed ownership.
I felt robbed.  Even the first
bite of the tuna fish sandwich
I had bought at the corner
became yours.

Not tonight, anyway

June 4: Never Getting Ahead

Sometimes it feels as though I go through my day simply waiting for the next piece of bad news to come my way.  I work hard, play the pipe organ at one church, play in a praise band at another church, teach community school classes, and always treat people well.  I paste a smile on my face every morning, and I don't scrape it off until I go to bed at night.  Yet, I never seem to get ahead.  Never.

Instead, I'm displaced from one job.  Told I'm not "good enough" to play the organ at church.  Accept a reduction in salary.  Work longer and later hours.  In the fall, I'm barely going to see my kids because I have to teach late afternoon and evening classes at the university.  I'm going to have to phone in my father duties.  And the bill collectors will still be calling my phone every day for past due notices.

If you can't tell, I'm a little pissed off tonight.  I'm tired of finishing last or second-to-last all the time.  I'm tired of being the good guy, because good guys always seem to get stepped on or taken advantage of.  (Yes, I just ended the sentence with a preposition, and I don't give a shit.)  From now on (or at least for the foreseeable future), I'm going to stop caring about other people.  I'm going to stop being happy for other people's successes because, frankly, I don't care.  I'm going to stop being nice.  Period.

There's going to be no happily ever after in this post.  Sorry.  I'm not a big believer in happily ever after right now.

Saint Marty is having trouble believing in anything tonight.

Insert jaded comment here...