A poem I wrote as I flew home for the farewell.
A poem of mourning, that includes and omits what such poems may....
While you were looking away, you died. While you turned on your back and again on your side, but could not be comfortable no matter how hard you tried, you died. While you watched for the nurse, sure it wouldn't matter if you disobeyed, if you got up again on your own, wishing your daughter would take you home, sharp as her tongue could be, back to the bed which had become your kingdom, you died. While you thought of an article on Chu pottery, and another on the Egyptians, the folds of fat on a scribe, while you wished you could write just one more piece, while you cursed the bastards who'd rejected your book, red-lining each with a quick sure pen, you died. Half reconciled to your daughters, wishing your sons would call, thinking with satisfaction of the men you had survived, you died. (And it could have been worse, so much worse, God, didn't we know it? Fifty years of smoke, and twice you'd fought the monster gnawing at your chest. Still, it lingered, like you, worn out by the struggle, two aged beings, exhausted and grey.) While you wished you had the strength To read the New York Times, while you thought of the books You'd ordered from the branch, while you recalled the reading roome at Forty-Second Street, the gilt wood on the ceiling, the green-shaded lamps, Dry ponderous volumes at Science Po, the bouqinistes along the Seine, the old used bookstores below Fourteenth Street, The floods, the crowds of impatient books, you died. While you remembered, dimly, so dimly, the new white dress you wore to a vineyard, grape stains and sunshine, admiring glances of men in the street, Paris and Rome, bike rides through Brittany with the man you loved, plans as perfect as chateaux on the Loire; rubble in the Village, alley cats and trash; the somewhat bearable places we land; as the flakes of that fresco began to fall away, you died. As you thought of the tribe of your children: the men they might have married, the men they should have been - clippings to send your cousin, news to give old friends. Not that you didn't love them exactly as they were, but it could have been so nice, it would have looked so well- Instead: obscurity, obscurity and love; With that taste at the back of your throat, you died. As you worried about your garden, sure the weeds had made their way in, yearning to tug again at a stubborn root, to mulch, to spade, to snap away the dead. That's what you do, when they're no good, they're gone - the limp petals - the dry leaves your fingers snip them all. As you recalled that gesture you died. With no bedside scenes, no last words, no reproaches or forgiveness, no promises, no prayers no significant glances, no notes in a drawer, no one flying in from anywhere at all - With no one to close your eyes, you died. While you waited for the doctor to check a chart next door, while you tried to ignore the buzzing and the hum, while you wondered when all this would be done, you died. With frustration, irritation, with some impatience, but above all fatigue, you died. While you were living, and weary of the effort, weary of everything, even entertainment - While you were living, you died. © 1999, 2009, 2014 Jim Chevallier