July 30: Poem from "Kyrie," My Friend's Nephew, Love and Joy

Poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

I had other children, and they've all
had children too, I know I am
the luckiest of men--my wife, my sons--
but the tongue goes to where the tooth had been.

He was our first.  The War, he said,
was the one important story of his time,
a crucible.
                   Right after he got sick
they quarantined the post, we were on our way
to nurse him through--
                                        our brightest boy
who used to ride his horse the length of the trestle,
across the steep ravine of Cherrystone,
he had such faith in the horse, in himself--

we stayed at a little inn, they gave us Tea,
served the English way, with clotted cream.

_______________________________________

Some days leave me without words.  This is one of them.

A family I know is grieving the unexpected loss of a beloved someone.  The nephew of one of my best friends.  He was, literally, the brightest boy, and he imparted that brightness to everyone lucky enough to be in his orbit.  Born with cerebral palsy, he was sustained his whole life by love, and, in turn, love and joy were his primary methods of communication.

And what happens when a bright star collapses?  Its gravity pulls all the surrounding light into the black hole of its absence.  The universe keeps pressing its tongue to the place where the star was and finds a vacuum.  Then, the heavens must realign, planets shift, celestial bodies reorganize.  It takes millennia before patterns reemerge and equilibrium returns.

I just returned from a long walk with my puppy.  We went down streets, up hills, by a lake.  The sky was vibrant blue.  The new moon was clear and bright in the heavens, and it followed us everywhere, as if it was trying to say something.  I finally stopped and looked at it for a very long time.

The sun was setting.  Darkness leeching into the horizon.  And the moon was standing there, in defiance of the coming night.  Bold and unafraid.  And I got it.  I understood what it was trying to whisper in my ear.  All that love and joy that my friend's nephew imparted to this existence will never be dimmed.  It will go on and on, forever.

In mythology, great heroes and heroines, at the end of their lives, don't fade away.  They are raised up, set among the stars.  They become constellations, watching over us.  Guardian angels of light.

That's where my friend's nephew is tonight, skating across the clotted cream of the galaxies.  Smiling, as always.  Reminding us all of the language of love.

And for that miracle, Saint Marty gives thanks tonight.