The First Time Percy Came Back
by Mary Oliver
The first time Percy came back
he was not sailing on a cloud.
He was loping along the sand as though
he had come a great way.
"Percy," I cried out, and reached to him--
those white curls--
but he was unreachable. As music
is present yet you can't touch it.
"Yes, it's all different," he said.
"You're going to be very surprised."
But I wasn't thinking of that. I only
wanted to hold him. "Listen," he said,
"I miss that too.
And now you'll be telling stories
of my coming back
and they won't be false, and they won't be true,
but they'll be real."
And then, as he used to, he said, "Let's go!"
And we walked down the beach together.
I have been struggling these last days. Distracted. Sad. Too exhausted every night to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. That's why I've been doing these catchup blog posts well past the dates they should have been written and shared.
Just a few days ago, I realized that it has been one year since my sister, Rose, died. Somehow, my body and brain knew it, I think, without it being consciously at the forefront of my thoughts. That is why I've been having such a hard time stringing together words into sentences these last ten or so days.
So, I'm going to tell you a story.
A long time ago (okay, about a year ago), in a galaxy far, far away (okay, it was actually at my house) . . .
My sister, Rose, had died a few days before. I was in the hospital room when she breathed her last breaths. Without question, I knew that she was gone.
I am a person who frequently suffers from insomnia. When I should be in bed, I am usually awake--writing poetry or blog posts, binging The X-Files, or searching my shelves for a specific volume that I absolutely need to have immediately. You get the idea.
On this particular night, I was lying on the couch, watching something on TV. Probably a movie that I'd seen many, many times before. I may have dozed off. I'm not sure. The next thing I know, my sister, Rose, was standing by my Christmas tree. (Yes, I leave my Christmas tree up a long time. If you have a problem with that, please submit a written complaint in triplicate to the Department of Eat My Ass.)
There Rose was, but not the way she was at the end of her life. In the last few years before she died, Rose had lost a lot of things--her memory, speech, ability to walk by herself. It's a well-worn metaphor, but it's an apt one here: Rose was a shell of her former self.
The Rose that was standing in my living room that night was young and strong. My sister was always tiny, less than five feet. Yet, she could arm wrestle with the best in her prime. Kids who teased her in school or on the playground for being a "retard" often found themselves flat on their backs, gasping for air. That was the Rose I saw that night. The Rose who could take care of herself.
As I said a couple paragraphs ago, I may have fallen asleep, but Rose was like the music Oliver describes in the poem--present, and yet I couldn't touch her. I waited to see if she was going to say anything. She didn't. What I got instead was a steady gaze and a smile, as if she had shone up to tell me a joke or ask me for a Diet Coke (her favorite).
It lasted only a few seconds. Or a lifetime. I closed my eyes and shook my head. When I opened my eyes again, she was gone.
Again, I'm not sure if I was awake or asleep. I know that I'd been working on the poem I was going to read for Rose's funeral right before this happened. For those of my disciples who don't believe in angels or ghosts or an afterlife, chalk Rose's appearance up to an exhausted, grief-stricken brother's mind. And for those of my disciples who are open to mystery without the need for explanation, chalk it up to my sister's loving spirit that wanted me to know that she was alright. Happy. Whole.
Is this a false story? Is it true? Yes and yes, I suppose, depending on your belief system. Is it real?
As sure as Saint Marty loves tapioca pudding.
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