Gradually, under the spell of gravity,
I’m changing
back into a handful of dust,
a handful, moreover, I borrowed.
I step out of the shower and look into the mirror,
and I have to laugh.
Still, there’s the human glue of touch,
the not-yet-joke of sex.
I’m only passing through, is how
the old hymn puts it, which my late aunt, Irma,
sang in the Springside Baptist Church, in gull falsetto,
with peacock gusto, and I, barely a fledgling, roared inside.
But the art of aging, which is the art of failing,
which is the art of losing, which is the art of accepting,
is hard to master, let alone, graciously.
I wake at 2AM and become my own bully:
fool, coward, failure, you could have done more with your life,
and before I imagine a bullet tearing through my cranium,
I silently recite Psalm 23.
Beside me, Deb is sleeping, softly breathing.
She is my true comfort. Yet, not always comfort enough.
We are living and dying at once.
I know this! I’ve said it in conversation when I was the age of my children.
Now, how comically different it sounds.
This strange spiral of years, like a towering tin trophy, teetering,
and I, scavenge the hours for pauses, to shore up its brittle pedestal.
And now I see my mother — smiling, amused by my youthful naivety.
Almost 92, she died full of grace,
happily content, as though eating cherries.
My father, who died at 73, liked to say, “young at heart,”
and I liked to hear him say it, right up until that surprising day.
At the cusp of my seventh decade, I’m learning to accept my death,
and wondering if I’ll see my aunt again. I’d love to hear her sing.
Then we’d get down to some gossip, over a cup of Postum.
Mom will be making sandwiches, homemade butter on homemade bread.
Dad, at the kitchen table, will be tilting back in his chrome-frame,
blue-vinyl chair, wearing two holes in the linoleum,
reading the Yorkton Enterprise.
I’ve read the science. Our collections of atoms, scattered, repurposed,
going on and on; but I’m not happy about the thought of atomizing.
Give me an afterlife, but with real fried bologna.
So just this morning, at Country Grocers, someone touched my arm,
and I melted, and I burned
to remain here, here, on this blue, blue, earth.
Happy Birthday. May there be many more so I can read more of your thoughtful and inspiring posts.
Thank you, Don! That means a lot.
Happy Birthday Stephen! What a gift you have. Being a mere 7 years your junior, I can relate. Those of us who know you and are sensitive to your prose wish you many more sweet and fruitful decades on this blue, blue earth!
And blessings and inspiration to you, Doug. Thank you for your kindness.
Enjoyed your recollections and musings about life and death
Happy Birthday from your bother already in the latter half of threescore & ten
Thanks so much, Paul! Thank you for your quiet mentorship.
I’m a just a couple of years ahead of you, Stephen, and I’m …
Learning to Love the Evening
By Marcia Lee Laycock
Learning to love the evening
the softer slant of light
after the blaze of day
Learning a slowness
like a smile that lingers
with deepened awareness of taste,
touch, smell and sight
Learning to love the longing
at end of day that pulls like
an eager tide that knows the song
of returning
Learning that even death has its beauty
the silhouette of birds in a barren tree
the layered light of a sky
cradling the sinking sun.
This is beautiful, especially the last stanza. Thank you, Marcia!
Thank you, for your kind words. They mean a lot coming from one of my favourite poets. 🙂
How poignant and tender and wise in its longing is this poem. Thank you, friend, for looking your life squarely in the face and sharing your view with the rest of us. May sweetness and love find you today.
Wenda, I so appreciate the artist in you reaching out to me. Thank you for this!
Thanks for sharing this vulnerable and insightful reflection. I relate to it all, but especially the gripping last stanza:
“someone touched my arm,
and I melted, and I burned
to remain here, here, on this blue, blue, earth.”
Thank you, Dan, for your kind response! Thank you for letting me know.
Those last few lines got me. I see in you a love for for life – for THIS embodied life – that I don’t see in so much religion. I hope for an afterlife too – but my impossible hope is that it just be more of the goodness found here. More sugar and salt and touch. More warm blankets on cold days and rough hands on long walks. Thanks for always being inspiring Stephen. Do you know I often tell friends I know a poet who can open a beer bottle with his eye socket?! Now that’s embodiment. It seems to me, if you’ve left any opportunities on the table, it’s been on pursuit of goodness over greatness. What you may have lost in breadth of influence (why your writing isn’t more widely known I’ll never know) you’ve surely gained in depth of impact. I hope I’m making those same choices, if and when they come my way. Much love today and the happiest of birthdays.
Dave, thank you! Loved this little tribute, and I take it to heart. The “doing” of what we do, has to be enough, or it’s hollow. Thank you for your friendship, and I wish you the sky as you continue to make music.
‘Give me an afterlife, but with real fried bologna.’
From one November baby to another – wishing you a very happy birthday and may we both have many more! Laurie xoxo
Thanks so much, Laurie! You are an inspiration.
Great seeing you today!
Ahhh, Stephen. Your gentle writing is so articulate with observation, you have found the golden ticket to inspiration that makes me want to write more, be better. But first, I weep, smile, nod, sigh— that there is such a witness, so full of grace, empty of self, a cultivator of mercy. Thank you for this birthday gift to us.
I’m so grateful for this kindness, Joyce! Elevated, inspired, and humbled, is where this puts me. Thank you!
Fashionably late.. as always,
How very lovely and life affirming, your words Stephen wash over one
like a golden leaf slowly making its gorgeous rhythmic descent
to the ground.
And you my friend, have many more budding years
to come.
Very best be-lated birthday wishes to you dear Stephen,
May love and kindness surround you always.
Thank you for the gift
of
words -^-
Thank you, dear and kind, Tamara! You always lift my heart.
Thank you, my kind friend! I so love your responses.
Again a happy birthday. I’m reading “How to inhabit time” by James K. A. Smith. I think you would enjoy it. He says we need to know when we are, not just where we are, and how we are the products of our times.
And I agree – heaven should have fried bologna!
Thanks for this, Sam!
Happy belated bday Stephen
Thank you, Ananda!
Very nice Dad. Always like when you reference your kids. This is the one I’ll introduce to my grade 11s. Nice use of anaphora, alliteration and imagery among other literary devices they will need to identify or else I’ll fail ’em. 🙂
Ha! Thanks Mike, but perhaps I need a brushing up from you! Had no idea I was using all that stuff. 🙂