February 5: Difficult in the Dark, Sister's Funeral, "Ascension"

In the middle of the night, Santiago does a difficult thing . . . 

So he did it. It was difficult in the dark and once the fish made a surge that pulled him down on his face and made a cut below his eye. The blood ran down his cheek a little way. But it coagulated and dried before it reached his chin and he worked his way back to the bow and rested against the wood. He adjusted the sack and carefully worked the line so that it came across a new part of his shoulders and, holding it anchored with his shoulders, he carefully felt the pull of the fish and then felt with his hand the progress of the skiff through the water.

Today was my sister's funeral.  A difficult thing.  Most of my remaining siblings were there.  Some of my best friends were there.  Two of those best friends sang songs to honor my sister, and, in the process, reduced me to a puddle.  My son read a poem he wrote, again reducing me to a puddle.  I read a poem the I wrote for my sister and ended up being reduced to a puddle by the last line.  I barely choked it out of my mouth.

I've been thinking about/working on the poem for over two weeks.  I spent six hours working on it last night.  Got up this morning at 5:30, worked on it for another three hours.  My favorite poems by my favorite poets all seem so . . . effortless.  I'm not sure if the poem I wrote and read at my sister's funeral this afternoon seemed effortless.  Because it was actually really . . . difficult.  One of the most difficult poems I've ever written.

So, on one of the most difficult days of my life, I read one of the most difficult poems I've ever written.  

And then Saint Marty went home, ate some pizza, played some games with his family, and took a nap.  None of that was difficult.

The difficult poem.  Hoping it seems effortless . . .

Ascension

by:  Martin Achatz

for Rose, February 5, 2022

I wonder what Jesus did as he ascended
on that elevator of cloud. Did he wave
to the disciples as he rose and rose
like some kite broken free of its string,
becoming smaller, smaller until he
was swallowed by the great blue
throat of heaven? And did the disciples
keep their eyes trained on him,
unblinking, until tears transformed
that mountaintop into the Sea of Galilee?
After he was gone, did the disciples stand
there, look at each other dumbly, try
to recall his last word? Was it
earth or dirt or air or mother?
They didn’t have phones to take
pictures or videos. Weren’t able to
scroll through their albums
to remind themselves how dark
his skin and eyes were or how
laughing made him blaze
like Pentecost. Instead, they gospelled
each other, tried to recall with letters
God’s whiskered face.
          Today, we gather
in this church for you, dear sister, two
weeks after the metronome of your lungs
ceased and you ascended on that cold
morning. I stood by your bed, held
your hand, mapped its pulse
with my fingertips. I don’t remember
the last word you spoke to me,
or even second to last. It may
have been my name or mother
or ham or simply yes. Like the disciples
now, I’m greedy for every
last scrap of you, your crooked
smile, how you cackled even
when you didn’t get the joke. I
spent my entire life knowing
you, but not really knowing.
Until the end, when you were
rising and rising away from me,
getting smaller, smaller. I
watched until you vanished
from sight, taken back
to that place you came
from, that infinity between zero
and one. Only then did I realize
how lucky I’d been. To have
you with me every day, drinking
Diet Cokes, listening to ABBA
songs, begging me to wrap
my arms around your
shoulders. I could spend the rest
of my days writing gospels and gospels
about how much you loved me.