unreachable place

[salishan]

it is one of the nastiest autumn days in memory
big wind with driving rain , cold
burr it is cold
the nastiest , where i live & also
along most of the Oregon & Washington coastal areas

but there is a pocket , a break in the weather
up the coast from me , where
Ma & Pa still live

Pa , at dawn (already dressed)
is walking back up the driveway with the morning paper

he never makes it back to the house

neighbor sees him lying there , newspaper at his side
calls the paramedics
they arrive in 5 minutes , but can do nothing for him

neighbors appear & pull Ma back indoors , out of the light rain
keep her calm , make sure she takes her medicine
a little food , until
Aunt Pat (Pa's sister) & i arrive , 3 hours later

we bring the storm with us
the house , when we arrive
is screeching & moaning around the windows & under the front door
rain a staccato ping-ping-ping against the front windows

Ma keeps pushing herself up , to get out of the chair
like she has something she just remembered she needs to do
then she checks herself , sits back down
tries to relax

Aunt Pat & i & Ma talk , calmly
just everyday talk
Ma appears normal enough that way , but there is part of her
which is inaccessible , entirely unreachable
(a deep deep void
all too plain upon her face)

Aunt Pat & i take turns caring for Ma
while the other of us fields the phone-calls & in-person callers
& makes the necessary family & legal telephone notifications

by evening the rain is still heavy , but
the wind has moderated some , &
the place becomes again the (all-too-familiar) house i grew-up in

& it is only now , when Aunt Pat & i begin to relax
when i see it , too
coming onto Aunt Pat's face
her own unreachable place
(she & Pa were tight as kids , which didn't change
despite her in adulthood sticking with Grandpa's Lutheranism where Pa
returned to the Society of Friends of his family heritage)
Aunt Pat notices me watching her , gives me a half-smile
i don't intrude
grief is a strange beast

we lower the futon couch & make it up as a bed
for Aunt Pat
& i take my own old bedroom
the still spare (suddenly very tiny) bedroom of my youth

the wind has come back a little , the rain
light but steady
there is a bucket in the corner of the room
quarter inch of water in it , but
nothing more dripping from a yellow-spot in the ceiling
(neighbor , caring for Ma
must have heard the drip this morning & put the bucket there)

i can't sleep
can barely hear the rain , but (here) in the indoors
the whir of the refrigerator , the (distantly familiar) creaks & groans
of the house settling
Pa's up & moving around
i say to myself , then
catch myself
ha !

even when i am kid , Pa gets itches
has trouble sleeping , moves from window to window
watching the silhouette trees moving against the gray-black night sky

i'm tempted to get up & do the same , but
don't want to disturb Aunt Pat (or to
freak-out Ma)
so i just stare at the tree-shadows moving across the wall & ceiling

this is two weeks ago today

if someone had seen my face then
they would have seen my own unreachable place
grief is strange beast

 

[salishan]

it is a very clean silence

Ma is napping
Aunt Pat is driving Ma's people back to PDX for their flight home
it is afternoon last Sunday , day after Pa's memorial

Ma & Pa always did keep the house neat & clean
but , as i look
there is something more , now

every line of architecture is clean & crisp
every table & chair & sofa pristine , clearly delineated

with Pa alive , this room is heavy with Pa's presence
the air palpable & thick , as if
his movement thru the room has left residue
the air around objects as real as the objects themselves
(like negative-spaces in early modern sculpture)
but now

the air in this room is thin , weightless
as if all the heaviness has been vacuumed out
all traces of Pa's habitual movements , erased away

i have many memories of Pa , sitting & walking & talking
in this room , but
they are only "in my head" , i cannot
picture these memories in this room
this room is new , like a facsimile of the room i once knew
like a movie-set exact recreation , with
newer paint & better lighting

Pa
is vacuumed out of this quiet picture before my eyes
this clean & crisp picture
his present now , erased entirely
felt maybe , but only as an absence (of what was)
only as a

pristine void

 

[Servetus]

This (the above) is an extraordinary monument
etched in blue
upon ice
by a heart and hand
warmed by inextinguishable flame

Grief is a strange beast indeed

 

[salishan]

Servetus
exquisite creature

it is now nearly nine weeks

what is startling to me
(& maybe a little appalling) is
the hole in the world caused by Pa's death

how quickly it fills up

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how quickly nature heals its wounds &
moves on

the hardware store he worked part-time
(his Social Security check & Ma's not quite
paying the monthly bills , mostly for Ma's medicines)
Pa seeming a fixture at the store
always ready with good advice on any project

i go in there
the place has a palpable rhythm to it
(a new rhythm)

it is like Pa had never worked there at all

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from a young age , my parents teach me to be
self-reliant

the loss for me is not existential
(i do not feel emotionally unmoored)

much of Pa is still with me in muscle-memory
the practical , methodical way
he (now i) embark upon any fix-it project

i , too
am mild-mannered , socially (like Pa)
but (unlike Pa) i do not turn testy when
it comes to political or religious topics

i tend to empathize with another person's point-of-view
or life-situation (an emotion i picked-up from Aunt Pat)
but i do not have a lot of patience with their short-sightedness
nor with their moral-blindness (a trait i got from Ma)

Pa was
no way a crutch in my life , to lean on
just always a friend (a joy to be with)

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the the hole in the world may
largely have filled up

but (at nine weeks)
the hole inside me is

(still) gaping

 

[Servetus]

Grief, a strange beast, comes prowling and demands to be domesticated, but always defies the attempt.

 

[Servetus]

It was, as I recall, during April, when its “showers sweet” had “bathed every vine in sweet liquor,” that Chaucer sent his pilgrims, filled with longing, from every shire's end in England to Canterbury in search of the blissful and blessed martyr. Furthermore, two skys, Stravinsky and Nijinsky, set the Paris audience on edge and, finally, into uproar when they premiered the controversial 'Rites of Spring.'

About now, then, this season, new things happen. Snow melts, trees bud and birds, "many little birds that make melody," build nests. And sometimes, just sometimes, the hole where once the heart was begins, almost imperceptibly, to beat. I hope that you, ma and Aunt Pat are carrying on and well at that, Salishan.

Kind regards,

Serv