I noticed the sad smiles of the nurses and the way they left us finally alone with him; the discarded socks; the empty lobby; the absence of any doctors.I heard the silence of the useless machines; Sinatra singing about easy street; sirens wailing somewhere off in the darkness; the phone ringing too early, my brother apologizing for the hour, but "Come" he said; the rush of hot water on my heavy head.
I admired his grace and final acceptance; making it easy for us, for me, by not coming home to die; his concern always for someone else, someone worse off than he.
I was astonished by the snow in mid-November; by my brothers surprised faces that I should take my time in getting there; astonished that our last real talking had been about that damned car just a week earlier; that we would end this day scrutinizing his tuxedo and its cigarette burns.
I'd like to see that sunrise again, over the ocean, with the snow falling outside the window; him at the coffee pot or brooding over his computer; that light he kept in his eyes for me; his feet stamping and anger that used to frighten me so.
Most tender was Brian holding his hand and our laughter with the funeral director that afternoon writing his obituary; my friend Cathy standing off in the back, uncomfortable.
His quiet sleep was most wonderful, most deserved; seeing the men from his lodge that came out for him, so many that do this as routine; an end to the pills and eating cardboard; an end to the slow deterioration and loss of him.
I thought it was another setback, not the end. Really, I should have seen what was happening; his tears the day he left here; his fear at being alone in the world; his confusion of my life with another's; his quietness; his surrender.
Mary Oliver fans probably recognize the format of her poem, "Gratitude", borrowed here without any poetry. I had wanted to write something for my dad yesterday and couldn't, but this poem helped me today to examine my memories of the day he died. Last year I had a little more fun remembering.
14 comments:
Beautiful written, tender memories of a difficult time.
When the 3rd anniversary of my Dad's death came along last month, I couldn't write about it. I remember him at odd moments during "ordinary" days.
Thinking of ya today, Laura.
Very moving. Thanks. I hope not to go through this for many more years.
A lovely and thoughtful post about how strands of the mundane weave through grief, reducing to a scale that we can manage, even as we wonder why we should want to.
Lovely way to remember.
A nice tribute, friend. I hope I don't have to go through it any time soon, but each year it gets closer and I get more afraid. That's when I call him.
Ah--Laura--I remember last year's post on your dad.
This is very poignant. One expects missing that parent to get easier--it doesn't always.
Wow. How tender and lovely.
Wow, how touching, and how close to home it hits, Laura. I'm thinking about you.
Beautiful post,Laura. You are in my thoughts.
Ruth: Thanks.
Susan: Thanks for that. You should write it out.
Dave: Thanks for saying so and I hope not either.
Bunnygirl: Exactly! Focusing on the mundane and just images helped me to remember some interesting things that would've been lost otherwise.
Liza: Thanks, though I don't know just how lovely it is.
Delia: Yeah - do call!
KGMom: I think it is easier for me, in that I like to remember now.
Dan: Hi and thanks for stopping by to comment.
Naturewoman: I know. Hope you're hanging in there.
Jean: Thanks for that.
I know how it is.
Laura, thank you for sharing these beautiful words. My, how my emotions are high now.
Hugs,
Mary
z: Yeah, I know you do.
Mary: Thanks for the hugs.
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