"Don't put things off…it may be later than you think."
“Stripped of Memory”
The memory of this place consigns its pain to me
A bunch of grapes plucked off,
Empty sprigs form quiet stress
Place-holding taunts and barbs,
The burnt toast ghost of treasured anticipation
Who will remember what I can’t?
When I can no longer bear witness
Such is the narrative:
A leaf blows off a bridge
After having been stuck
And dances the air
Until it comes to float on restless waters
Carried away to be counted among other forgetful forgottens
Working hours on the day,
Commute seemed long and drawn.
Intentions dreamt and paved the way,
For moments long past gone.
Laughter lilts and lingers on,
Despite a darker sky.
It’s much less blue than once before,
No reason, sense, or why?
Traveled with, for much the way,
A journey shared in common.
Absence carves a heart dismayed,
Off-stage, but not forgotten.
Occasion brings on thoughts of you,
Long memory’s pure insistence.
A life lived well is never through,
Imbued by love’s persistence.
Quietly, a Quiet Man,
Walks through life majestic.
Laughter lilts and lingers on,
Remembering poetic.
On July 26, 2014, I learned something new.
I learned that there is a monster called Intracerebral Hemorrhagic Stroke.
It is possible I had hear of it in passing, but until that day, it lurked elsewhere.
It wasn’t when I went to my father’s apartment because he didn’t show up to the planned picnic.
It wasn’t when I was knocking loudly on his door, or after I heard what I thought was loud snoring.
Or once the door was open and the firefighters and I discovered my father on the floor fighting to breath.
It wasn’t on the ambulance ride to Mass General Hospital, or in the waiting area of the emergency room.
It wasn’t among the myriad texts and conversations with others trying to find out information from me while my phone battery was slowly dying.
But, later on in an exhausted moment, that I learned of the horror of Intracerebral Hemorrhagic Stroke from a young physician who drew the short straw and was tasked with explaining to my Sister and I, that our Father‘s life had been irrevocably changed.
However, that wasn’t the only thing I learned.
I learned that despite the irrevocable change to my Father, that there resided small graces and victories within the experience as it unfolded.
I learned of the extraordinary compassion and care that can be delivered by nurses, doctors, and staff.
I learned of the lengths and actions to which family and friends would go to support us, and my Father.
I learned that it is imperative to create a healthcare proxy and designate people to make decisions about your health if you ever end up in position where you are unable to do so for yourself.
I learned that when you suffer and Intracerebral Hemorrhagic Stroke that if you can survive past 30 days, then the chances of a long hard road to recovery could improve.
On August 23, 2014 I learned something new.
I learned that 29 days can seem like a lifetime, and that nothing is promised.
I learned how fast I could get to a hospital from my home. 15 minutes 20 seconds.
I learned after years of working at a hospital, what it was like to be brought to a family grief room before you could be brought into the room of a dying parent.
I learned that death doesn’t happen like it does in the movies, or in books, that it is actually quite anticlimactic and that sometimes it is unclear when the actual moment of death occurs.
I learned that when an attending physician asks you as a healthcare proxy, what you want to have done for your Father, that all else falls away and you are locked in the eye contact of a moment, and you need to decide hard for the life.
I learned that I could do what needed to be done for my Father, as he had done for us all his life.
I learned that when the dust settled, and the doctors and nurses cleared the bay to give us our last moments with our Father, that it wasn’t the words I love you, or that it’s okay Dad, but just two words forever: Thank you! Thank you!
I learned that in the staged moment of death, that whatever I brought to the table in the way of preconceived notions, it all succumbed to a need to express my sincerest gratitude to my father for so many things, and a simple thank you was all that was needed.
On June 25 2016 I learned something new.
At my son’s pre-school graduation, I learned that Atticus wanted to be a ninja when he grows up.
On December 7, 2018 I learned something new.
When I was cleaning out Atticus’s first grade folder of the weeks completed work, I found a butterfly craft that had a number of paper folds with a question on one side and the answer on the other. As I went around the butterfly wings I saw a familiar question. What do you want to be when you grow up? And I was certain that it was going to say ninja, but when I turned the flap over, it simply read: A Daddy. I feel nothing but the sincerest gratitude that I learned that today.
When I was a kid,
I enjoyed being outside in the rain.
Not directly, of course,
But, huddled in a doorway, or a shed.
Breathing dampy.
Listening to the regal pitter-pat of raindrops drumming on corrugated roofs, or the splintered plywood of makeshift forts.
Raw earth and drinking greenery would tickle my nostrils,
And car contrails of mist would space the distance according to the traffic tempo.
If you listened carefully, you would hear man-sized Tonka Trucks, pile-drivers, and the whistling sound of landing planes on final approach.
The safety of a semi-dry place during all of this,
Made me feel the good alone.
Defying nature, until it was time to return home.
When I peeled off my soiled Chuck Taylors from puddle stomping missteps.
My white socks would be ink black.
A thoughtful mystery unravels itself within a dirty ashtray.
Dozens of mouths and lips suck the filtered marrow of tobacco magic.
Sin after sin is displaced by denial.
They say to use the right tool for a job.
Staring at the runners and wondering why they can’t clear the hurdles.
Distance or height?
Or perhaps, they are staggered out improperly, only at intervals that would guarantee defeat.
Someone needs to set those hurdles up,
all in a row.
A race towards a tomorrow, that when reached in the present, will only be lamented for the regretted past it will become.
Burn, a blazing burn.
Stars that go quiet, must go through a period of fierce interest and catastrophe.
Then the science is applied, and sold along-side other things.
Sidewalk Sally sashays down the block.
She insists on wearing woolen, open-toed house slippers.
She says they make her feel like Ginger Rogers.
But, they offer up no protection from the elements.
Soiled, marmalade in color, and quite smelly.
When you take a good look at her feet,
you see savaged nail beds and scaly red flakes.
She likes to joke with me,
asking when we’re going to get pedicures together.
I see her often, mostly every day.
She holds court at the bus stop.
She seems happily homeless, if there is such a thing.
Sometimes she has a brown paper bag peeking from a bottomless pocket in her thrift store trench coat.
It’s her armor from the dragons haunting her voyage through this life.
Whether it’s thirty-two degrees, or eighty-five degrees,
Sidewalk Sally stays in character.
Man does she sweat.
When she asks me for money,
I buy her a coffee and a breakfast sandwich.
She tells me she would spend the night with me for seventy-five bucks.
I tell her I have a girlfriend, and we’re going steady.
She laughs a hearty cackle,
sounding like the rattling chains binding horses to a Conestoga Wagon.
She shows me her swollen leg as encouragement.
The white sweat pants she’s wearing seem painted on,
and are migrating to more of a butterscotch shade.
One time, a friend of mine that drives a trolley from Old Towne Trolley Tours,
told me that he saw Sidewalk Sally defecating on the stairs at City Hall,
while he was giving a tour.
“And there’s Sidewalk Sally, relieving herself, next to the Samuel Adams Statue.”
He said she was bent over, head between legs,
sweatpants around ankles, shooting poops in an arc.
I didn’t believe him, but I believed him.
I sort of miss Sidewalk Sally when she’s not there.
A pang of worry creeps into my heart.
Inevitably, she returns with a cast on her hand,
or bandages on her head, or bare-footed, sans woolen house slippers.
On occasion, Sally asks me for a smoke.
I don’t smoke.
Then she pulls one out and lights it,
and immediately blows the smoke in my face,
waiting for my reaction.
I think she likes me because I’m from Chicago.
Sidewalk Sally escaped from Chicago,
but is reticent to explain the circumstances.
She just sashays down the street.
Scuffling those slippers when she has them,
And talking to whoever will listen.
A very special thanks to the invisible among us. I promise, I see you.
40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the rest.
If there was a word to describe the you of you, I’d write it down with earnestness.
So I could, underline and italicize it.
There would be a place to point, an origin.
Words are born of the necessity to term things.
Terming the you of you proves difficult.
What would be the word that terms a word that is unable to be termed?
Insert your name here____________.
An antonym, a cinnamon synonym.
Metaphorical simile, hard to see.
Albeit, being.
Definition, high.
Confounded by the mystery,
inexplicable novelty.
A word for the you of you,
seems fleeting.
Yet, worth pursuit.
When I dream the dream of that word,
the you of you appears.
Starting 7/23/18
