Wednesday, December 14, 2016
"Silent Night," as sung by my dad to my mom
When my mom was dying, something told me we had to decorate her hospital room. Even though she couldn't see it--she'd had a massive stroke and was unable to talk or open her eyes--I could feel she was so present, so with us. And something hit me as I was sitting there and crying and literally giving her grief... it was so selfish and controlling, like--and sorry I can't think of any prettier, less smellier way to say it--I was literally shitting all over her. There was too much of a contrast with the glorious outside (the most beautiful bird-loud August ever) and inside her room, tubes and plastic and beeping like some laboratory where bad things get invented because someone was careless. I didn't want that for her, my mom who still planned out theme birthday cakes for us way into adulthood, vanilla cats and baseball diamonds and rocket ships. I wanted us to give her a party with the moon and stars, the pink-laughing-with-yellow of a new day.
So I strung a string of butterflies across the window and played the songs on my iPod that seemed the most appropriate--I love loud guitars so there weren't too many, but I did have Burt Bacharach, The Carpenters, Vince Guaraldi's theme from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" (it sounds great in the summer, by the way). Not sure if it was the combination of the decorations and the music, but for whatever reason my dad--brain shrinking from dementia, heart growing because the theory of relativity--started singing "Silent Night" to my mom. And we all joined in, my sisters and brother-in-law. I'm not sure how many times we covered the first verse, but it was just the right amount.
There are no stars in your eyes when they're closed
We stumble behind you, dim to your inner constellation,
singing you home
Monday, December 5, 2016
Under tissue sky I
the end-of-the-season sale.
All the leaves, crackling bloodless arid,
you can fit in one paper bag.
A dozen seed pods--a bargain!--
everything within on chelonian lock-down.
Then by the river, so
foolish and tender,
a yellow rose I grab to hold in my hibernating
This song by the way is just Ray being Ray. And I suspect the caterpillar is buttoned up in a cardigan.