July 26: Miracles, Camille T. Dungy, "Requiem"

As I approach the anniversary of my sister's death, I sometimes find it difficult to be positive.  I have been trying to focus on joy and happiness, to greater and lesser success at times.  In my previous post tonight, I talked about miracles.

My sister was a miracle.  One of the smartest people I have ever known.  Generous--she bought me a new car when I graduated from my Master's degree program.  Drove me down to Kalamazoo when I started in a PhD program, hauling a trailer full of my crap.  She supported me in everything that I ever did.

I know she wasn't perfect.  She knew I wasn't perfect.  Yet, we accepted each other's failings.  A couple years ago, as we were sitting in her office at the end of a long work day, she told me that she admired my strength in dark times.  My sister wasn't a warm, fuzzy person.  Didn't hug much.  But she cared deeply, loved deeply.

Saint Marty believes in miracles.

Requiem

by:  Camille T. Dungy

Sing the mass—
light upon me washing words
now that I am gone. 

The sky was a hot, blue sheet the summer breeze fanned

out and over the town. I could have lived forever

under that sky. Forgetting where I was,

I looked left, not right, crossed into a street

and stepped in front of the bus that ended me.

Will you believe me when I tell you it was beautiful—

my left leg turned to uselessness and my right shoe flung

some distance down the road? Will you believe me

when I tell you I had never been so in love

with anyone as I was, then, with everyone I saw?

The way an age-worn man held his wife’s shaking arm,

supporting the weight that seemed to sing from the heart

she clutched. Knowing her eyes embraced the pile

that was me, he guided her sacked body through the crowd.

And the way one woman began a fast the moment she looked

under the wheel. I saw her swear off decadence.

I saw her start to pray. You see, I was so beautiful

the woman sent to clean the street used words

like police tape to keep back a young boy

seconds before he rounded the grisly bumper.

The woman who cordoned the area feared my memory

would fly him through the world on pinions of passion

much as, later, the sight of my awful beauty pulled her down

to tears when she pooled my blood with water

and swiftly, swiftly washed my stains away.

May 19: Retrospective Falsification

When someone dies, there's a certain amount of retrospective falsification that goes on.  "Retrospective falsification" is a term coined by author Mario Puzo to describe the process of erasing bad memories.  We've all done it.

Retrospective falsification is inevitable.  My brother who recently passed was not a saint.  (Spoiler alert:  Saint Marty really isn't a saint, either.)  We all have things we've done in the past that make us cringe, blush, and hide our faces.  That's what being human is all about.  Making mistakes.  Learning from those mistakes.  Becoming a better person.

My brother made mistakes.  He smoked.  He didn't take care of his diabetes.  Because of those mistakes, he had a stroke.  Yet, he learned from his mistakes.  After his stroke, he worked hard at his recovery, became an active church-goer, and became a really good person.  At his funeral, I was amazed by the number of people who stood up and told stories about my brother.  Wonderful stories full of laughter and love.

I love my brother, warts and all.  He had his failings.  But he also had his victories.

Saint Marty prefers to remember his brother that way.

There aren't any shortcuts