Spacing
by: Billy Collins
When the traffic
in Los Angeles thickens
and comes to a stop,
the drivers in the other cars
look like they are pretending
to be from earth,
and not from some other planet
where this kind of thing never occurs.
When I am no longer a part of this life, I hope I'm not remembered as a road rager. Or a grumpy old guy who chased kids off his lawn. Or a misanthrope who hated human beings just out of principle. I might as well just say it: I hope I'm not remembered as a Republican.
Today, I celebrate a person who never had a mean bone in her body. She loved everyone, and every one loved her. In her time on this planet, she loved writing letters to friends and family, worked on latch hook rugs, and guzzled Diet Coke. When you arrived or left any place, she always lifted her arms for a hug.
Her name was Rose, and she was my sister. Today would have been her 59th birthday.
Rose taught me about a lot of things: compassion, joy, love, understanding, patience. On her last morning, she taught me how to die well--surrounded by family, not struggling, breathing peacefully until she simply . . . stopped.
I think of her every day and hope I can live up to the unconditional love she blessed me with.
Here is the poem I wrote for Rose's funeral:
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.
Saint Marty is going to drink a Diet Coke in his sister's honor tonight.
Tulip on my Desk
by: Martin Achatz
Its head droops down
as if it has just remembered
it's my dead sister's birthday.
❤️
ReplyDelete