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.

September 1: Dean Young, "Dear Friend," Alone in a Dark Wood

Dear Friend

by:  Dean Young

What will be served for our reception

in the devastation? Finger food, of course

and white wine, something printed on the napkins.

We were not children together

but we are now. Every bird knows

only two notes constantly rearranged.

That’s called forever so we wear pajamas

to the practice funeral, buckeroos

to the end. We make paper hats

of headlines and float them away.

My home made of smoke,

tiny spider made of punctuation,

my favorite poem is cinder

scratched into a sidewalk.

My friend’s becoming the simplest man,

he sees a lesson in everything,

in missing his train,

in his son hollering from the first branch,

Dad, guess where I am.

I was with him for my first magpies,

governmental and acting like hell.

And the new nickel

with Washington hard to recognize.

We’d driven by a Rabbit flattened

by an upset truck, jars of Miracle Whip

broken over the toll road in heavy snow.

We watched an old lady

eat a hot dog in a bun

with a knife and fork.

A few emeralds winged off

a fruit leaf.

What happens when your head splits open

and the bird flies out, its two notes deranged?

You got better, I got better,

wildflowers rimmed the crater,

glitter glitter glitter.

We knew someone whose father died

then we knew ourselves.

Astronomer, gladiator,

thief, a tombstone salesman.

All our vacations went to the sea

that breathed two times a day

without a machine.

We got in trouble with a raft

doing what we promised not to.

Further out to be brought further back.

There’s my friend in his squashed hat

trying to determine if a dot

is a living thing and do no harm.

He’s having trouble remembering street names

but there’s still plenty of Thoreau.

All that a human is made of is gold,

very very little gold.

_______________________________

I've had a lot of support and kindness sent my way in the last couple weeks, and for that I am really grateful.

I'm still not out of the forest.  Dante wrote, "In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself in a dark wood where the straight way was lost."  I read that line for the first time so many years ago.  Never thought it would have so much meaning for me.  I was wrong.

The difference between Dante and Saint Marty is having friends in that dark wood.