Arriving in the end

In the stillness of the predawn, I can feel him here. Drinking his black coffee, catching up on the news and grumbling his political opinion aloud and in his mind. Playing with his art, quietly creating genius and beauty.  He won first place in a regional photo contest, postmortem. He was moving rapidly up in esteem of his colleagues once again. Of course he was. Half ass was not in my dad’s vocabulary.

The coffee cup left his desk sometime in the last few months. Quietly and without pomp it was moved. It makes me sadder. Like the last remnants of him might be moving on. I am not sure I am. Not sure what that looks like, even after a year.

It happened so fast, so excruciatingly fast in the slowest motion.

7:20 p.m. October 21, 2015 -At that hour, the expectations of love ceased to be expectations, and just became truth, what it is. There were no more physical exchanges to be had, no more lamentations to be sung. But the truth became the loudest sound I have ever heard. Louder than the million words, hours, looks or touch.

“I have taught you all I know,” he said. I have taught you all, I know. There is no more wisdom to impart in this realm, but the seed is just beginning to grow. I understand your love for me more in your passing than was possible in living. Death of your body was our liaison to the truth between our souls. Every contingency our Type A’s had construed for deserving love, fell away–leaving only the option to receive it, finally and purely.

I was on your right as your soul chose the light. No that is incorrect, I was at your feet. One hand on your bare calf to see if I could feel your life through my fingertips, the epicness, the smallness, the brilliance. What a life feels like when it leaves. If I could finally feel your peace. You were beautiful. You chose the light and I will always fully understand that. Afterall, it is what we seek. In your final moments, you taught us to look for the light, to find it, to hold it and to share it. That we deserved it, you deserved it, just by being.

Your being now stands with equal pressure on my left side, holding my hand, not pulling me forward or backward, just standing near. I am trying not to lean, but stand tall, independent and never alone.

I use the good soap you gave me. I know it’s good because you told me so, and those were always the nature of your gifts. Goodness wrapped up.  As the water slowly recedes from my body, the air touches my warm wet skin and reminds me that it is time. There are no more things to do. I am clean and now I must go. It tickles as it drains away from me, reminding my skin it is alive, reminding me to live, purposefully, with intent, sharing my light.

Never a poet, and yes, I know it

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE OCTOBER 5, 2016 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

I love poetry. Like in the way I love coffee, chocolate, music and my children. It is a comfort creation for me. The enigmatic quality of fusing seemingly juxtapositional images together to breach the deepest and most complex of human emotions. It gets me every time.

I think of it as a puzzle unable to solve, or if I think I have, it has taken me several years of curriculum in the school of hard knocks to finally “Get It.” And even then, the intimate relationship poetry forms between the reader and the page is subjective, meaning is forever fluid with time and experience.

For me, there is one image, one poem from Mr. Wallace Stevens that launched me into this love affair with the medium as a young college freshman. Sunday Morning. I still often think of the first stanza when I’m enjoying that beloved cup of coffee in the morning.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,

And the green freedom of a cockatoo

Upon a rug, mingle to dissipate

The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

  I now own several compilations of poetry, some with long introductions to forge the theme, those claiming to be the greatest in all the world, the official Norton Anthology volumes, (thanks ENG 403-Intro to Poetry), a poem on the back of a chocolate wrapper I received a few years ago. It doesn’t really matter where it resides, I immerse myself in it. But for all my unwaivering devotion, I just can’t write it.

I’ve ultimately resolved myself to the fact that I will be a life-long adorer and consumer of the medium, not a solid contributor, and that’s okay. Like a song, I know that poetry has the consistent ability to put words to the biggest complexities of my life. It doesn’t necessarily solve them or simplify, but it does consistently give them a platform for feeling, hearing and seeing them from all angles.

Dissecting poetry is like walking through art, perhaps the eternal stairs of M.C. Escher, which ultimately is about relativity, much like poetry. Just when you feel like you’ve found the landing, the absolute landing, life happens and there is more to climb. And I keep climbing and reclimbing.