January 21: "Headstones," Joseph, Full Life

Billy Collins visits a cemetery . . . 

Headstones

by:  Billy Collins

If the dates show

the husband died

shortly after the wife--

first Gladys then Harry,

Betty followed by Tom--

the cause is often

gradual starvation

and not a broken heart.

It's a funny poem.  No getting around it.  But, as with all poems, there is, at its core, a great deal of truth.  

I worked in the healthcare field for about 25 years, and I've been alive for over half a century now.  I've seen it happen many times with couples who've been married a long, long time--so long that their names are almost always spoken together, in one breath.  When one member of that duo passes, the other usually isn't far behind.  It's called broken heart syndrome--takotsubo cardiomyopathy.  The heart muscle is put under so much stress from the loss that it, quite literally, breaks.

You may remember, back in August, 2023, I believe, I wrote about my dear, dear friend, Joseph.  Joseph first came into my life at a poetry reading I gave just one or two days after my father's passing, before we had even celebrated his funeral Mass.  In the front row at that reading sat Joseph in his long winter overcoat and beret, beautiful cane in his hand, gray hair and beard meticulously groomed.

After the reading was over, Joseph approached me, and I suddenly found myself having the most intimate of conversations with him, talking about my father and family, sharing details about his life and death.  And Joseph stood there, nodding, saying, "yes, yes" as I spoke.  When we parted company, I didn't think I'd ever see him again, but our encounter was a very bright moment in a very dark time for me.

Two days later, Joseph showed up at my dad's funeral.  Before the service, he came and spoke with me again, and then my family.  After the Mass was all over, he came to lunch, sat with me and my family, and it really felt as if he was a part of us.

That was in February of 2017.  Throughout the intervening years, Joseph drifted in and out of my life.  He suffered serious heart issues.  Survived the pandemic.  Fell in love with a woman.  Had his heart broken.  Appeared at readings and concerts and other events.  

This past summer, he told me that he was dying, his internal organs closing up shop.  Yet, when he told me this, he smiled and said, "No, no, no.  Don't be sad.  I've had a good life.  A full life.  There's nothing to be sad about."

Joseph taught me a lot of things in the time I knew him.  Love.  Mercy.  Attentiveness.  Compassion.  For people, trees, creatures, the world.  And in the last act of his life, he taught me about grace.  He kept marching forward, deeply enjoying each and every person and place he encountered.

At 1:45 this morning, Joseph marched forward again, this time right into the open arms of the loving God in whom he believed with his whole heart.  Tonight, the world seems a much darker place to me.

But I can hear Joseph in my ear:  "No, no, no, my friend.  No tears."

And so Saint Marty smiles.  

Rest well, dear friend.