Waiting
for one who needs no invitation,
cannot be kept away,
I watch the news . . .
see so many suffering
watch horrors unfolding
catastrophes here and there,
so much devastation.
How much can we possibly bear?
Waiting,
people tell me to cut the feed
find serenity where I am
as if not knowing would change
what one feels,
what is.
We are always feeding
mind and stomach
stretching and straining
taking it all in
even what is rejected
retching and staining.
Terminal Consumption Indigestion,
our fatal fascination with indulgence
and like transfixed wounded children
left alone to tend to all that matters
we tend only the flames
Waiting
wondering if the adults
might at last arrive
set us straight
with love
or punishment
but the only one
who will come
is ambivalent
cold
inevitable
Death is such a potent catalyst for the living, bringing reactions to the surface, forming compounds of thought and feeling previously out of reach.
My mother, dying when I was 15. My father, after a long and wonderful life. My sister, released from pain several years ago. So many relatives. And dear friends. And the partners of friends.
I seldom go to cemeteries. There really doesn't seem to be any need to do so. The dead are always with me.
When I was the one who took care of the well at Damian Ranch, there was a local company that would come to do the big jobs. The owner, Jack, a big boot/cowboy hat wearing silent type, approached me once to say he heard me speak at a friend's memorial. My mouth dropped in surprise. I couldn't make the connection in my mind. How could these two very different people have known each other?!
As Jack explained, I thought back to that outdoor service at Catalina State Park, and to long blonde haired Brian. He was a nurse when I was the teacher at Sierra Tucson.
Easy to smile Brian and I would often take on 3 -5 teen-agers on the basketball court at the adolescent care facility. We'd always win because we knew where the other was and would pass and assist in a seamless flow; while each teen tried to be a star, rather than utilize the number advantage they had. After each game, we'd sit on the court and talk about what happened. It was how Brian and I did therapy together. I loved him. And, miss him still. His suspicious overdose death, never something that sat right with me.

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