Awareness
Death to me, as perhaps to you,
upon first encounter
is a new fact
like gravity,
the heat of a long burning light bulb,
or the sounds of a dog outdoors in winter.
Wonder sets in before fear and sadness.
Emotions learned. Acquired from adults.
The proper way to behave, they tell me,
is to sit still and be sad.
The proper way to behave, they show me,
is to speak softly in cautious grief.
Then an acceptance:
Everyone else, it seems, must die.
Understanding
I say Death must become unfair
because it isn't
intrinsically.
It fits the bill quite well though.
Plays its part.
The looming curtain, waiting,
waiting to drop and end the show
without concern, or without much concern,
as to the state of the players
or the scene
or the act.
Possibly without concern even for the playwright
but I can't speak to that.
Death is the stage hand, who, after having seen enough,
or maybe due to an urge for a cigarette or a coffee or a sandwich at the diner down the way
pulls the cord,
drops the heavy veil,
cutting the action.
Treating equally the most poetic of soliloquy,
the basest burlesque
and the brightest light-hearted farce.
Justification
Death is a metaphor for winter. For describing the cold and the harsh without having to fall to words
like 'cold' or 'harsh'
The closing of the eyes, like the quick darkening of the skies, brings fear.
With Death at least we speak of the unknown.We pretend and our pretending leads to some surprising ideas.
Ideas so varied, so diverse that we recognize how much we don't know.
(Even if we won't always admit to it)
Death is a softer, gentler stand-in for the burdens of life.
Burdens we know too well and will anticipate if, for even a moment, we leave our minds free to do so.
Reality
The nurse told us that toward the end
she would pull away,
and I was left with the image of me
as a boy on the playground and the friend,
who only just the day before had run with me to be the first on the swing,
was today telling me to go away
to take my cooties someplace else.
He'd found a better friend.
And, now, was our grandmother doing just the same?
Had she grown tired of us? Found someone new to love?
Would she make them, from scratch, a banana pudding
with the meringue on top, just like I liked it?
And who was this nurse? This woman sworn to heal!
Who was she to tell us this? To surrender? To tell us to surrender!
Was it not she who was pulling away? On to other patients?
To better patients? To find someone maybe a little less challenging?
And here we are, weak, helpless, practically begging her to stay.
Calling to her. Calling to God. We'll do better. We'll be kinder.
We'll eat every last one of our vegetables.
All the while knowing, or at least coming to know, that it's no good
It's no good.
The movie is ending. The evening is passing into night. The light is...
Metaphors.
We have to look at this thing. See it for what it is.
There's no room now for wasted time.
We gather around the bed. We hold each other. We cry until we shake.
We cover one another in tears.
We practice, each in turn, saying goodbye.
We wait.
And, when finally it comes, we are not ready.
Mystery
Age can be measured
in funerals attended per year.
A better way, perhaps,
than years since birth.
Better for being not a line, straight on, but a curve.
Sloping upward, toward life's asymptote.
Logic ceases. Reason suspends.
And even sacred mathematics
fails to explain with any personal satisfaction.
It's mystery. Damned mystery.
And it's with no small shame that I admit
how much I truly, truly hate that word.
upon first encounter
is a new fact
like gravity,
the heat of a long burning light bulb,
or the sounds of a dog outdoors in winter.
Wonder sets in before fear and sadness.
Emotions learned. Acquired from adults.
The proper way to behave, they tell me,
is to sit still and be sad.
The proper way to behave, they show me,
is to speak softly in cautious grief.
Then an acceptance:
Everyone else, it seems, must die.
###
I say Death must become unfair
because it isn't
intrinsically.
It fits the bill quite well though.
Plays its part.
The looming curtain, waiting,
waiting to drop and end the show
without concern, or without much concern,
as to the state of the players
or the scene
or the act.
Possibly without concern even for the playwright
but I can't speak to that.
Death is the stage hand, who, after having seen enough,
or maybe due to an urge for a cigarette or a coffee or a sandwich at the diner down the way
pulls the cord,
drops the heavy veil,
cutting the action.
Treating equally the most poetic of soliloquy,
the basest burlesque
and the brightest light-hearted farce.
###
Death is a metaphor for winter. For describing the cold and the harsh without having to fall to words
like 'cold' or 'harsh'
The closing of the eyes, like the quick darkening of the skies, brings fear.
With Death at least we speak of the unknown.We pretend and our pretending leads to some surprising ideas.
Ideas so varied, so diverse that we recognize how much we don't know.
(Even if we won't always admit to it)
Death is a softer, gentler stand-in for the burdens of life.
Burdens we know too well and will anticipate if, for even a moment, we leave our minds free to do so.
###
The nurse told us that toward the end
she would pull away,
and I was left with the image of me
as a boy on the playground and the friend,
who only just the day before had run with me to be the first on the swing,
was today telling me to go away
to take my cooties someplace else.
He'd found a better friend.
And, now, was our grandmother doing just the same?
Had she grown tired of us? Found someone new to love?
Would she make them, from scratch, a banana pudding
with the meringue on top, just like I liked it?
And who was this nurse? This woman sworn to heal!
Who was she to tell us this? To surrender? To tell us to surrender!
Was it not she who was pulling away? On to other patients?
To better patients? To find someone maybe a little less challenging?
And here we are, weak, helpless, practically begging her to stay.
Calling to her. Calling to God. We'll do better. We'll be kinder.
We'll eat every last one of our vegetables.
All the while knowing, or at least coming to know, that it's no good
It's no good.
The movie is ending. The evening is passing into night. The light is...
Metaphors.
We have to look at this thing. See it for what it is.
There's no room now for wasted time.
We gather around the bed. We hold each other. We cry until we shake.
We cover one another in tears.
We practice, each in turn, saying goodbye.
We wait.
And, when finally it comes, we are not ready.
###
Age can be measured
in funerals attended per year.
A better way, perhaps,
than years since birth.
Better for being not a line, straight on, but a curve.
Sloping upward, toward life's asymptote.
Logic ceases. Reason suspends.
And even sacred mathematics
fails to explain with any personal satisfaction.
It's mystery. Damned mystery.
And it's with no small shame that I admit
how much I truly, truly hate that word.
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